With Love, From Hell
by fearest
Summary: Esca Montgomery just came back from a long stint in Hell, and a lot has changed. With the help of two fellow demon-hunters, she sets out to figure out how she's back, and why. [late-season 4]
1. Prologue

"Don't do it, Rade."

"Give me one good reason." The man hesitated, then added, "Actually, give me three. And provide examples from the text."

"Snarky, for a human."

A glint of teeth as the man grinned. Straight teeth, from braces that his past could amply afford. If one knew him, they might question why he'd become a hunter in the first place. "You've been gone a long time, haven't you?"

The teenage girl scowled. She crossed her arms over her pink shirt, which was covered in cobwebs and thick dust. It matched the webs hanging in the corners of the old crypt. Her pale face was lit by the moonlight streaming in through the open doorway.

"Long enough to remember what respect really is."

"Isn't that a kind of doily?" Rade grinned, then flicked off the safety on his gun. "Or, you know, something similarly useless."

"Just like that bullet's going to be." The girl flicked her wrist, and the gun went flying from Rade's hand. It clattered against the dark stone wall. She pouted. "I thought you knew better."

Rade shrugged, watching as the girl's eyes turned black. The demon was finally showing itself. "What can I say, I'm an optimist."

"That's cute."

Rade pointed up at the ceiling, where a demon's-trap had been spray-painted on in white earlier that day. He had been prepared. "And what about that?"

The girl looked up, and the blood drained from her face. Her eyes flicked back to Rade's and she snarled. "That's less cute."

Rade let out a sigh. "Oh well. I guess I'll just have to start in on the exorcism, now that I've got you trapped..."

The girl narrowed her eyes. "Is there a 'but' at the end of that sentence, Rade Montgomery?"

The man grinned. His teeth were bright against his tan skin. "So demons _do_ recognize social cues. I would've thought that with all the mindless killing and bloodshed, you'd be a little less inclined."

"Well, whatever it is you wanted, you're not getting it for free." The girl gave a little shrug of her own. "So either you exorcise me and get it over with, or you pull the rod from your ass and you make me an offer I can't refuse."

The smile faded from the man's face. Suddenly, he looked tired. His gray eyes fixed on the girl's. "You know what I want."

Her lips turned up, transforming her mouth into a wicked grin. "Oh, I know. I just want to hear you say it."

His jaw clenched, but the girl could tell he wouldn't refuse. Desperate men don't shove away their last hope for redemption. "I want you to bring her back. Bring Jessica back."

Her grin slipped into a pout. "Isn't that the sweetest thing. Making a deal for your little sister." The girl stepped forward to the edge of the circle etched above her head. "Reminds me of someone. Only that someone wasn't the cause of his brother's death. Not like you and Jessica."

"I didn't kill her." His fingers started to shake.

"No, maybe not; but you let her die." She put on a saccharine smile. "To the man upstairs, it's pretty much the same."

"But I'm not dealing with the man upstairs. I'm dealing with you." Rade stepped forward. "So do we have a deal?"

The girl laughed. "You've really never done this before, have you? Honey, that's not how it works. You tell me what you want, I tell you what it's gonna cost. Then we shake on it - or kiss on it, whatever floats your boat. And the cost for your sister ain't cheap, Rade. You know why, don't you?"

The man blanched, and his lips pressed into a line. Knowledge was a burden, and he had carried it for a long time. "I do."

"And this won't escape _Her_ notice. Lilith will find her eventually. And your sister'll get dragged back to Hell just like five months ago, only this time, you won't be here to magic her back out again." The girl stepped back again, cocking her head at him. "Is it really worth it?"

There was no pause. "Yes. Yes, it is."

"Okay then. Rade, I accept your offer. In return, I'm taking your soul. Sound fair?"

Rade took a step back, frowning. "No - don't I get ten years?"

The girl laughed. "I'm no crossroads demon, Rade. And everyone knows your soul is worth less and less the more you dirty it with the blood of my kind. No, I think I'll take my chance for the cleanest side of your soul I'm ever going to see. You want to save your sister so bad? It's your soul, up front, or the deal is off."

Rade stared at the girl. She didn't look possessed. Hell, she looked nice. Kind. But he looked past that, imagining the face of another girl, a few years older than the demon vessel, with dark hair, tan skin and gray eyes like his. Jessica.

The wistful thoughts evaporated. After the beating the demon inside of her had taken, it was highly unlikely that the girl would get out intact. She would join the ever-increasing ranks of those dead at the hands of demons. Her life was lost.

Jessica's didn't have to be.

But it appeared that Rade knew something about Jessica that even this demon didn't know. Something that would make his death worth what it would bring.

So instead of rattling off the exorcism rites, Rade walked forward and used the button of his coat-sleeve to scrape away some of the paint over the girl's head. The trap was broken.

The girl glanced up, then sidled closer, grinning. "That's real nice of you, Rade."

"Just do it."

The girl shrugged, and pushed herself up on her toes to bring her lips close to Rade's. "Then seal the deal, big boy. Your soul for your sister's."

Rade sucked in his last breath. It was dusty, stale. Then he pressed his mouth to hers.

He'd been headed for Hell anyways.

* * *

><p><em>Please review! This is my first Supernatural fanfic (and my first fanfic on this site).<em>

_~MK_


	2. I Meet Hell's Bail

I'm on fire. Everything's on fire. Or maybe it's not? I don't know anymore. The only thing I'm sure of is the fact that the shrieks and cackles that echo through this endless void aren't human. Something pokes against my bare foot, like a claw, and it pierces my skin. I'm not even sure how I still have skin.

I don't know why I'm here.

All I know is that I've been here for years. Years of this boiling, burning torment. And I'll be here until the end of time.

_Hell._

You know, I always figured that it was an exaggeration. Pit of fire, demons at every turn - wasn't that just a bedtime story to scare good little Christian girls into the nunnery?

No. No, apparently it wasn't. It really is as bad as the stories say. Worse, even.

I want to cry. I want to scream. I don't know if I have tear ducts anymore, or a throat, or lungs, but I want to do _something_. One minute I'm fighting my way out of a vampire nest, and the next I'm here. And here I've stayed.

The claw digs its way in further, returning my mind to the present. Normally, in this side of Hell, they just scratch. Shred my skin for a little, then pass on for another to come along. After all, I'm just one of a million, a billion damned souls in here. I can catch glimpses of them sometimes, through the gloom and smoke. Hear their screams. I don't know how they manage to scream anymore.

I'm resigned. I guess that's not the way I would have wanted to go out, but thing is, once you're out, you're kind of free from all that noble ideation. And you can't get much more "out" than Hell itself.

Suddenly, a pair of black eyes appear above my own, attached to a black body - the owner of the claw that still lingers in my flesh. It practically disappears in the dark. I see the gleam of white teeth as it grins.

"You just met bail," it says. I would have thought its voice would be scratchy. A hiss at best. A roar, maybe. But it actually sounds human. Or maybe I've just gotten so used to the demonic voices around me that I've forgotten what a human voice sounds like.

"So I get time off for good behavior?" I retort, my own voice barely above a whisper. I can't even hear it above the screams and the hellfire.

"You think you're funny, don't you, hunter?"

If I still had a functioning body, I would have shrugged. "On occasion."

"You sound just like him," the demon replies. I don't like the way it says it. I open my mouth to ask - though I don't know why, since demons lie as a rule, and I can't trust a single word that comes out of its mouth - when the demon's grip tightens further.

And then I'm gone.

The fire is gone. The pain is gone. There's an instant, numb bliss.

I blink, but the world around me is dark. I can hear my breaths echoing back at me, my blood rushing in my ears. My mouth feels cottony, my limbs heavy. I try to shift my neck, but my spine is stiff enough for it to let out a round of cracks. It takes a moment, but the truth finally sets in: I'm back in my own body. Back on the surface.

I grit my teeth, then let out a heavy breath. The air is thin. The material around me is slightly spongey, but familiar: wood.

A coffin?

For a moment, the idea sounds positively ludicrous. My brother and I, we're hunters. He would never be so stupid as to leave my body unburned. He couldn't risk me coming back as a ghost, and since my death was pretty traumatic (as far as deaths go, I suppose) it was likely that I would have.

But I take a quick sniff of the air again. It smells faintly of decay, of earth, of the ground. And it's the sweetest smell in the world, because it's not laced with smoke, or blood, or poison. It's just air. Normal, top-side air.

If my brother didn't burn me, then maybe he had hoped I'd get pulled out. I heard whispers in Hell about that, whispers that were years old in themselves by now. One of the crossroads deals had been broken. A man's soul had been pulled from the Pit.

Slowly, I begin to move. My hands fumble across my clothes until they find pockets - I think I'm wearing my old windbreaker. The fabric is scratchy, and for a moment, I almost don't remember why. Then the memories return - dunking the jacket in salt water, over and over, so that ghost and demons couldn't touch it - and the panic rising in my throat subsides.

My fingers search my pockets, finding nothing at first. Then they slip onto a narrow metal object. I grin in the dark. My Swiss Army knife, specially made for the odd supernatural mishap by coating the blades in silver.

I whip it out. Just having it in my hands makes my heart rate slow.

I need to think.

My brother buried me. If he was expecting me to somehow rise from the dead, he wouldn't have buried me very deep. I still have to climb through a couple feet of dirt, but this should be doable. I take a deep breath of the murky air and slam my fist into the softening wood above me. It creaks and shudders, so I do it again, and again, until the wood cracks and a wave of dirt swirls in.

I squeeze my eyes shut and keep digging. Sure enough, it doesn't take long for my fingers to reach clear air. Hoping to God that no one's around to freak out, I force my head out of the ground and suck in a lungful of fresh air.

After that, I pause for a second, taking in the world around me. It's nighttime, and the moon is sitting off to the corner of the sky. For some reason, I know the night has just begun, and isn't just about to finish. The air is cold against my skin. I'm in a graveyard.

I laugh out loud at the realization. The sound is harsh, unpracticed. A graveyard? Wow. Rade has really gone all-out on this. I glance behind me, but there's nothing but a simple stone cross to mark my grave. Good. I wouldn't have wanted him to spend money on something useless like engraving my name in it. Better to use it for ammo and salt. It's the same mentality that my dad shared, before he gave up his hunter lifestyle to become a bigshot lawyer in New York.

I'm just about to haul myself out entirely when I hear voices from across the yard. Their owners are hidden by the darkness, but I know that no one's going to miss a girl half-risen from the grave. I duck quickly back into the hole I made, clutching my Swiss Army knife to my chest and trying to calm my breaths enough to overhear their conversation. The chilled wind that whistles over the top of the hole seems to be on my side, and it quiets down.

Their words suddenly become clear. Two men, sounding annoyed.

" ...sure this is the place?"

"It's what Bobby said. Oak Ridge Cemetery." There's a pause as I assume they look around. "Yeah. This looks like it'll be _real_ interesting."

"You never know, Dean. He said something was going to go down tonight, and I believe him."

"Oh, I never said I didn't believe something was going to happen. I just don't know why we had to be two hours out of our way for what, a mystery monster? Admit it, if it was really serious, he would have come himself."

The other lets out a resigned sigh. There's a familiar click: someone's checking their handgun's clip. The noise makes me itch to look up, but I manage to keep my head down. I'll wait for them to leave, for whatever's going to happen to happen, then I'll leave. A trickle of cold dirt falls down my back, and I resign myself to discomfort.

There's a long silence. Then, one of the men asks, "You picking anything up with your psychic mojo?"

"That's not funny." Another sigh, this time a little bit irritated. I hear the sound of someone stuffing their hands in their pockets. "And that's not how it works."

"Then tell me, how does it work, Sammy?" He sounds frustrated, and I have a feeling this argument, whatever it's about, has been brewing for a long time. I shuffle a little in my grave, feeling my old sneakers rub together. I hope they haven't begun to rot yet - they're my favorites.

The thought surprises me. Shouldn't I be at least a little bit concerned about how I'm alive, when I was dead for who knows how long? Apart from that, my body seems to be in perfect condition - or at least, the same condition it had been in when I died. I can see the thick braceleting scar around my right wrist sheen in the moonlight, so I know that I'm not completely restored.

The conversation subsides again, this time in discontent. I wait for a minute or two longer, and when they haven't stirred, I shuffle my feet again and dare take a glance over the edge of the hole. I see two tall figures sitting on a thick gravestone at a slight diagonal from me, maybe seven graves away. They don't look like they're moving any time soon.

The shorter of the two makes an audible frowning noise, then roots around in his pocket for his cell phone. He trades his gun to the other hand and waves the phone at his friend. "Want me to call him to be sure?"

The other looks down at the phone, then shakes his head. "No. This is the place."

"You're the one who was being all skeptical earlier, not me." He replaces the phone in his pocket and toys with his gun, checking the clip again and sliding it back in. He glares around the cemetery. "This is stupid."

The taller one gets up and wanders around to the other side of the grave-marker. His friend turns his head to watch him. They sound like they could wait a while for whatever it is they're looking for, so this might be one of my best chances to get away without them seeing me.

I dig my fingers into the soft soil - did it rain recently? - and, as quietly as I can, I heave myself up. Being dead hasn't weakened my muscles much, so I can manage the motion without much strain. I vaguely remember my grandmother's insistent voice telling me that boys don't like a girl with muscles. Well, she's dead now, and I'm alive, so that's something. Then again, so's my father, and he's basically the reason I started hunting full-time in the first place, which is what lead to _my_ death, all things considered.

My toe catches on the edge of my coffin, and it creaks. Instantly, I flatten myself to the chilled ground, my chin digging into the earth painfully, but the noise has been heard. I hear the second man get to his feet. "Did you hear that?"

"Yeah. Think it's what we're looking for?"

"Hope so. I'm bored." Footsteps head in my direction. With every passing second, I become more and more sure that I won't be able to escape this. Readying myself, I flip open my knife for the longest blade and get to my feet. It's more of a staggering motion, a sign of weakness I'd rather not show, but better on my feet than lying on the ground. I brandish my knife and settle into a slight crouch. "Stay back."

I mentally smack myself in the forehead. Cliches are for second-rate hunters. I used to be able to banter with the pros. Did Hell steal that from me? I clench my jaw and don't let it get to me too much.

The man opens his mouth to speak, then looks at the ground behind me, taking in the open grave. His eyes flick back to mine. His face is still in shadow, but he's got short light-brown hair in the moonlight. "Huh."

The taller one moves up behind him, lowering his gun from where it had been aimed at my face. He searches his pockets for a second before pulling out a dark object – a flashlight. He clicks it on, aiming it at my feet so it doesn't blind me. If I hadn't just risen from the dead, I'd probably give him some snappy remark about how he's being such a gentleman, avoiding the eyes.

"I think this is what Bobby was talking about," the taller one says. I can't see his face either, since the light's headed in my direction, but I can see his outline against the navy sky. Muscular, just like his friend.

"Look, whatever gang thing you're in, I'm not a part of it," I say, settling my grip on my knife again. The blade glints in the beam of the flashlight. "In fact, I'll just be on my way, if that's all the same to you. Have a nice night."

I start to turn around – not the best decision to begin with in my situation, seeing as they're the ones with the guns, but whatever – when the shorter one speaks. His voice is deeper than the other's. "We're not in a gang."

"Could have fooled me," I reply.

"Look, lady, you're the one who just climbed out of the ground, so if it's all the same to _you_, you should probably stick around." I can see the flash of a smile in the moonlight. "Seeing as you were just dead."

I narrow my eyes at their silhouettes, looking from one to the other. They've got the guns. But, despite everything, I think I might have the element of surprise. I'm short, but I'm fast. I could make a run for it.

Then, the reckless part of me gives me pause. These people think they're looking for me. And they're not freaked out by the fact that I just rose from the dead, so they're either in the know, or really stupid. I'm not sure which one to bet on yet. So, instead of running, I shift back to face them. "Who's Bobby and why is he looking for me?"

"Eavesdrop much?" the short one asks, but before he can continue, the taller one steps forward, making sure to keep his flashlight angled down. He elbows his friend as he passes by.

"I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean." He glances back at Dean, then shrugs. "We were kind of hoping you'd be able to tell us the answer to that."

I look from Sam to Dean, to Sam again. I don't trust people in general, and these two are no different. Still, I answer truthfully. "Well, I've never met a 'Bobby' in my life, so I'm kind of in the dark about that too."

Dean fiddles with his gun, then levels the barrel at my head. Sam shuffles uncomfortably, but doesn't say anything against it. Dean asks, "So, what are you? Demon? Zombie? Good, old-fashioned vampire?"

"Is there a box for 'none of the above'?"

" 'Fraid not." His flicks off the safety on his gun. "So how about you hurry up and pick one."

I call his bluff. "You wouldn't shoot me."

"And why's that?"

"Because . . . " I struggle for an answer. To be honest, I don't know why. I can read people pretty well, but I can't see his face. All I can see is his grin. But I believe what I'm saying. "Because you're not that kind of person."

"Not that kind of – You don't exactly know me, lady." He waves his gun a little as if that will make the scene more convincing. "I could shoot you right now."

"Dean, maybe she's telling the truth."

"Maybe she's telling the truth," Dean mimics in a falsetto. "She just _rose _from the _grave_. That's not normal, Sammy. And I'm pretty sure Bobby wouldn't have sent us here just so we could give her a nice welcome-back party."

A welcome-back party? Suddenly, a flash of anger spears through me. I just came back from Hell, and these two are joking around about it like it's some sort of trick? I don't care if they're in the know about the supernatural side of life. They're pissing me off. "You don't know jack shit about me, Dean. And if you don't let me go, I'll sure as Hell make you."

"I don't think you want to go throwing that expression about. It's a real place. Could offend some people," he shoots back. The gun doesn't waver.

Sam looks over at him, then puts his hand on the gun and pushes it down. "I won't let you do it. There's no EMF, so she's not a spirit, and since when do vampires actually rise from their graves?"

"Since now." He gives his brother a long look, then clicks the safety back on and lets out an angry huff. "Fine. Have it your way."

Sam nods, then, pulling a bottle from his pocket, he moves as if to take a sip, then changes direction at the last second and splashes some on my face. I squeeze my eyes shut and wipe away the water with my spare hand. "Holy water? Really? I'm not a demon. When I said none of the above, I meant it."

"It's just a precaution." Sam returns the bottle to his pocket. Dean reluctantly puts away his gun. Sam faces me and searches for words for a long second, then says, "You know our names. Think we could maybe know yours?"

"Amy."

Dean gives me a look, then says, "Your real name."

I return the look with one of my own, but this time, I answer in truth. "Jessica."

Then, taking the opportunity as the best one I'll get for a long while, I add, "But nobody calls me that. And that's all you're going to find out about me."

Before he can whip back an answer, I'm off, sprinting into the night and away from them.

I've wasted enough time. I have to find out what year it is. I have to find out where I am.

I have to find my brother.


	3. I Get Attacked By A Quarter

The air rushes past me as I run. Maybe my muscles haven't loosened since I died, but my heart has definitely lost some of its endurance. It's rattling a deafening beat in my ears, pounding in time with my feet on the ground.

Behind me, I hear one of the boys swear, but I can't tell which. I'm sure they're running after me - it's what I would have done - but I have a head start. I sprint among the gravestones, never looking back. There's a line of trees that separate the graveyard from the road, and I zip between the trunks and onto the pavement.

A row of suburb-esque houses line the street in front of me. I'm not going to be getting any help from them. I whip my head to look down both ends of the street. One trails off into a residential area. The other seems to have more headlights down the way, probably getting closer to downtown. That's where I head.

I run past an old dark car that sits at the entrance to the cemetery. I'd bet all the money in my bank account that it belongs to the two brothers. The idea to slash the tires to prevent their coming after me flashes through my mind. Do I have the time? I glance back and see their shadowed forms running for me.

Better be quick, then. I crouch down and slash the back tires with the blade still sticking from my army knife. It's an old Impala, and I figure it's a rear-wheel drive vehicle. When causing trouble, it's best to cause the most humanly possible. That's a lesson that Rade taught me. He'd been a hunter ever since he left high school, whereas I left most of my training behind so that I could hopefully run my father's law company someday.

A brief memory of the Harvard campus flashes through my head, along with a pang of disappointment - disappointment in myself. When my father died of a heart-attack two years ago, I took off from my law degree, which I had been one year from finishing. I still remember the words he said, forced out on a dying breath -

The air hisses out, bringing me back to the present, and I straighten again. A quick glance behind me to check the time I have - time enough to get gone. I start off again. It takes a minute for the boys to make it back to their car, and I hear a loud curse. It's definitely Dean this time.

"Son of a bitch!"

I can't help a breathless grin. I duck past an intersection and head for the center of the town. I don't know if the boys are still on my trail, but I don't care at this point. Judging from the types of buildings here, this is a smallish town, and the police station is sure to be manned by some bored officer at this time of night. I'd learned from experience that these kinds of people usually allowed a free phone call on the station pay-phone, and since my brother hadn't thought to stuff my pockets with quarters, I'm going to need it.

A few more turns, and I've found it. Oak Ridge Police Station. I slow to a walk and lean over a bit to keep from throwing up. Sprinting a mile after a stint in the Pit isn't my idea of a warm-up. I'll need some serious R and R after I find my brother.

I push into the police station. A bell above the door rings like a corner-store, causing the balding, narrow-framed man behind the desk to look up. The air smells like old coffee and stale cigarettes. He frowns, and I can guess with frightening certainty the thoughts going on behind his spectacled eyes: _Boy, this girl looks like Hell warmed over._

"I lost my phone, and I think there are some guys on my tail - " I make my voice extra wheezy, but it's pretty much at the extreme already. No need for acting. "Could I use your phone, please?"

"Got any money?"

Damn that question. I squirm a little, to make myself look a little more helpless than I already do. I figure a twenty-something, five foot two girl covered in grave-dust probably looks pretty bad already. I don't look at him for effect, my eyes scanning the dark wood accents and pale blue walls that clearly haven't changed since the eighties. "No, they took my wallet, and I...I just barely got away."

Bingo. The dim blue eyes behind the glasses soften, and he beckons me forward. He drops a few quarters into my palm and gestures to the pay-phone by the door. "That's three calls. You're not from around here, are you?"

"Visiting relatives, actually. They live down on Oak Street." I'm just praying that Oak Street is actually a place. This is Oak Ridge, after all. Apparently, it's a good a guess as any, because the officer nods. "Thanks, by the way."

"No problem," he says gruffly, not liking the praise. Thus, my deception is complete. I turn away and move to the pay-phone. I pick up the phone and slot one of the quarters into the opening. With steady fingers, I dial my brother's cell.

I expect it to be picked up on one of the first rings - my brother doesn't care about what number's on the screen. When we work our separate jobs, I've lost my phone more that a couple of times. Pay-phone numbers have made appearances on his screen more times than I can count.

But it rings, and rings, and rings, until it rings out. There's a pause, then Rade's voicemail crackles across the line. "This is who you're looking for. No need for names. If you've got this number, you've got the right one. If I don't get back to you within the next twenty-four hours, I either don't give a shit about your case, or I'm busy. If that's the case, call my sister." He lists my number, though I'm sure it's been disconnected by now.

Then the voicemail beeps, and I pry my lips apart to leave a message. "Hey, Rade, it's me. Esca. I know, it's hard to believe, but we need to talk. I'm not...I'm not an insurance salesman. I swear. Just leave me a message with Lisa."

I can't find the words to end the message, so I just hang up. I hope he accepts it's me. I used our code-word for demon - my father used to say that insurance salesmen were the devil, and it became a family joke.

Lisa, on the other hand, isn't a code word. In fact, she's the destination of my next call. Glancing at the city map framed on the wall, I can see I'm in Ohio. It'll be late in New York, but the secretaries at Steele and Montgomery work late.

This time, the phone is answered. "Mike Ross' office, Lisa speaking. This had better be good."

"Lisa, it's me."

There's a heavy pause on the other end. "Jessica?"

I feel a wash of relief. Rade hadn't told the law offices that I'm dead. This is good. This is very good. "Yeah. Long time, no see."

"No see. You're funny." Lisa's tone clearly says that I'm far from hilarious. "It's been months, Esca, and you just ring me up all of a sudden and act like nothing's happened? Your brother hasn't called in ages, and the managing partners are getting nervous."

"Well, I haven't talked to him in a while either," I reply smoothly, but on the inside, there's a peculiar feeling bubbling in my stomach. Months? Not years? I was in Hell for a long time, wasn't I? Maybe the demons weren't lying. A month in the real world feels like ten years in Hell. I clear my throat and press on. "And they shouldn't be worried."

"Tell that to them in person," she says. "It's your firm, after all."

"Only because my dad left it to me."

"You're the one with the almost-law degree, Esca. Not your brother. You need to come back. The rest of the senior partners aren't very happy with you. You distract them from Mike's antics, and that's saying a lot." Mike is Lisa's boss, and he's pretty much the Rade of the lawyering world.

I let out a quick breath, then nod. After my time in Hell, maybe finishing up my degree and working in the family business will do me some good. "I'll come back. But if Rade calls to leave a message for me, find a way to let me know."

"Well, he _did_ leave a message for you. Three months ago. You weren't answering your phone. I didn't listen to it."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. If Lisa didn't listen to the message, then she thinks it's serious. She listens to everything. Sometimes, she claims to be omniscient. I don't disagree. "Do...do you think I could listen to it?"

"The message was deleted. I'm sorry, Esca, but the system does it automatically. I've been asking to get an upgrade for ages, too, since this is a law firm, for crying out loud, and we need them. But no. It got recorded over weeks ago." Lisa's voice is apologetic. "I really am sorry, Esca."

My jaw clenches involuntarily in annoyance, and I force it to unlock so I can speak again. "No, it's not your fault. I'll get in when I can. I just...have some loose ends I need to tie away."

"Should I tell the managing partners you called?"

I hesitate, wondering if I really want to alert them to my presence, then say, "Do it."

I hang up without saying goodbye.

My fingers graze over the final quarter sitting in my palm. There's a nervous feeling coiling like a snake in my stomach. Rade left Lisa a message for me, and he's not answering his phone? I hope to God he's not hurt. He's the only family I've got left, and if I lose him -

If I lose him, I don't know what I'll do.

Return to Steele and Montgomery? Live a white-picket-fence life, be a lawyer like I'd used to dream of becoming? That dream, of course, had happened before I started hunting full-time, about a year before I died. I had wanted to follow in my father's footsteps. Then my father had died, and everything had changed.

Who can I call with this quarter? Everyone I know, everyone I care about is at one of the two numbers I just called. No high school friends, no boyfriends, nothing. And then, along with the nerves, a thread of bleak sadness slithers in. I have two numbers to call. That's it.

I flip the coin over again in my hand, and suddenly, pain stabs through my head. It's so harsh that I double over on instinct. As if from far away, I hear the cop shout in surprise and jump up from his chair. He hurries over, but I don't hear what he's saying over the piercing screech in my ears. My fingers spasm, and the quarter flies across the floor.

Instantly, like a switch is flipped in my brain, the noise disappears into a low keening, which I soon recognize is coming from my throat. I choke it off, blinking back tears, breaths ragged.

"Miss? Miss, do I need to call for an ambulance?" The police officer hovers, unsure what to do. I don't look at him. My eyes scan the floor until they land on the quarter.

They flick up to look at the officer. Was it a hex? If that's true, why didn't it attack me to begin with? Is the officer a witch, or a demon, or something? I've been gone too long - I used to be able to almost sense these sorts of things. All I get is the numb, cottony sense I feel towards everything now, the same feeling I woke up with in my mouth.

"What is that?" I ask. My voice shakes against my will, but my arm is steady as I point at the coin lying innocuously on one of the white tiles.

The man doesn't seem to understand. He looks at the quarter, then faces me again and says, "It's twenty-five cents, Miss."

"No, what _is_ it?"

"A quarter?"

I search his face for a hint of deception, but there's nothing. It was nothing. I look back at the coin, but it hasn't disappeared, or started to fizz, or do anything out of the ordinary. It looks like a coin. It _is_ a coin, and just that, just like it had been when the officer had handed it to me.

Rubbing my shaking hands together, I straighten and take a stuttering step backwards. The man inches closer, his eyes cautious. "Miss," he asks again, "do I need to call nine-one-one?"

"No." I swallow tightly, reaching into my pocket to get a steady grip on my knife. It helps calm my racing pulse. "No, I'm fine. I have...asthma. Once I get my inhaler, I'll be fine."

He looks at me warily, but doesn't protest. "Are your relatives coming to pick you up?"

"Um, yes. They told me to wait outside."

"I thought there were men after you. Wouldn't you feel safer in - "

"No, no, I'm pretty sure I lost them." My voice sounds too rushed to my ears. I don't know if the officer notices. I can't stay in here any longer. "I'll just go sit outside. I need the fresh air anyways."

Another wary look. Maybe he thinks I'm crazy. Maybe I am. Still, he buys it. "Well, Miss, if you need any help, I'll be in here."

I nod, then step back towards the door. I push out into the cool evening air, then curse myself as the door swings shut behind me. I didn't ask for the date. I don't know what time of year it is, especially when here in Ohio, things can get pretty weird in terms of temperature. I've worked jobs here before.

"Hey, Jessica!"

I don't know if it's the shock from the coin incident or the distractedness of my thoughts that allows them to sneak up on me. Whatever it is, it worked in their favor. Standing by the door is a tired-looking Sam and a pissed-off Dean. Something about his expression rings a bell - a bell that I really wish didn't have to be rung.

It reminds me of something I saw in Hell.

I glance back at the door, wondering if I should bother jumping back in again, but I don't. Maybe it's the reckless part of me kicking in again. Maybe it's the fact that I know one thing for certain: these men are hunters. And apart from the law firm and my brother, hunters are the next closest thing I have to family. I don't know many, but hey. Hopefully it's like an alma-mater sort of deal - helping the other out because you went to the same school, or, in this case, make their money in the same obscure line of work.

"Look, I'm really not in the mood right now," I say, moving over to the bench on the opposite side of the door. The painted metal is cold through my jacket. "So move along. I'm sorry about your tires."

"My rims are going to get bent if this keeps happening, and do you know how expensive it would be to fix my baby up? _Very expensive_," Dean says. He and his brother walk over and take seats beside me before I can make a move to stop them.

"Well, boo hoo for that," I reply. I pull out my Swiss Army knife and start polishing it with my cuff. "I'm busy, and you were trying to kill me, so if you could stop being so touchy - ?"

"Touchy? _Touchy_?" Dean sucks in a deep breath to calm himself. His strong brow furrows, and he turns and mutters to Sam, "I'm gonna kill her. You talk."

Sam leans out a little so he can get a good look at me. In the light from the police station, I can see they're both attractive, of different types. There's little resemblance between them, but I can sense that there's a lot more than looks going for them. Sam has dark brown hair, and it's tucked behind his ears so it doesn't fall into his face.

"Jessica - "

"It's _Esca._"

"Esca - " he corrects himself, then continues, "do you know what's going on?"

"What, you mean, do I know why or how I was raised from the dead? No. And at the moment, I'm not going to question it." Okay, that's total bullshit. I need to know who or what brought me back or I'm going to explode, but now's not the time to go spilling my soul to a stranger. I just barely got it back anyways.

He gives Dean a sidelong look, then asks, "Do you have any odd markings on your body? Like, maybe a handprint?"

I give him a look. "Oh, yeah, because that's normal."

"It's just a question."

"Well, newsflash: I just got back into my body. I haven't exactly gotten around to examining it inch by inch yet," I say scornfully. "But hey, when I do, I'll be sure to give you a call."

Sam visibly swallows his retort and tries again. He's clearly the more level-headed of the pair. "And do you remember where you were?"

My blood runs cold at the thought. Lying through my teeth, I say, "Not an inch. But hey, here's hoping I was in Heaven."

"I highly doubt it," Dean mutters under his breath.

I decide it's time I cut to the chase. Giving them the least antagonistic looks I can manage, I ask, "You're hunters, right?"

"Wow, you catch on fast," Dean snaps. "A freaking Sherlock."

I ignore the urge to give a smartass reply and continue. "Have you heard of a hunter named Rade Montgomery? He works the northern states most of the time. Last I heard, he was working a routine haunting job in Wisconsin, but that was months ago."

The expressions on the men's faces grow serious, but I can tell before they answer me that the answer won't make me happy. "We haven't," Sam says. It's not hard to see that they know how bad this could be for me, though. Despite the short series of experiences I've had with them, I appreciate the sentiment.

I stuff down my disappointment and put on a confident smile. "Well, it was worth a shot."

"Why are you looking for him?" Sam asks.

"He's my brother." I don't see the point in hiding it from them. After all, I'll be gone soon anyways. Maybe back to New York, maybe across the country to look for Rade, but gone all the same.

Sam gives me a long, unreadable look, then pulls Dean into a standing position with him and drags him to the side. Over his brother's head, he gives me a brief, straight smile. "Just a sec."

They proceed to engage in a short but vehement argument. I catch bare snippets of what they're saying: " - motel - Bobby - hunter - grave."

The argument's over in less than a minute. Dean turns around, and by the scowl on his face, I know he's on the losing side. Sam's the one that takes the diplomatic route and addresses me. "We think we know someone who can help, but it's late, and it's probably not safe for you to be wandering around after dark - "

At that, I have to laugh. "I'm a hunter too, you know."

"You could stay with us, at least for the night. You could be gone by morning." Sam gives me a half-smile, an expression that's edged in some emotion I can't put my finger on. "We think we might be able to help."

"This isn't _Angel_, you guys, and you're not attractive brooding vampires. You don't have to 'help the helpless,' especially since I'm _not_ helpless," I say, but in the back of my mind, I know that I'm fighting a losing battle too - against myself. The men seem to realize that too.

I level a stern look at them, then heave myself to my feet. Now that I've taken the time to sit down, I notice that I'm tired. It makes sense, actually, after being awake for the past several months in Hell. "As long as this one doesn't waste me in my sleep, I accept."

"No promises," Dean growls. It sparks another flash of gruesome deja-vu. I try to shake it off.

Sam grins as though his brother hasn't just threatened to kill me. "Good. The motel is this way."


	4. The Bible Hates Me

The Blackbird Motel is the living embodiment of "hole in the wall." There are a million other places just like it, and it's inconspicuous. I'm glad for it, under it all. I've been alive for maybe an hour, and I'm already getting twitchy wondering what demons are going to be after me.

Because I know, if _I _was a demon, I wouldn't be particularly happy if one of my charges just got up and walked away. And I figure that they probably have a sense of humor in that, if they managed to kill me within the first week of my new life, it would serve whoever brought me back right.

Basically, I consider it a target on my back.

After a few futile attempts to engage me in conversation, Sam has lapsed into silence. He begins rummaging around in his pockets for the key.

The question of who raised me is nagging at the back of my mind, but I'm too tired to put any effort into thinking about it. The obvious solution would be that my brother did it. He's too smart to do something like that, though.

"Esca?" It's Sam. From the tone in his voice, he's said my name at least a few times already. I blink back to my immediate surroundings and find that the door has been opened. Dean is already inside, pulling out two beers from the mini-fridge.

Without answering, I step inside, and the warmth engulfs me. The room itself is pretty typical of one of these types of motels: pastel green walls, mottled with the texture of avocado skin. Two creaky double beds, cheap wooden furniture. There's an old analog TV sitting on the dresser.

Sam shuts the door behind me and tosses the keys onto the table. I don't need to see his face to tell that he's giving Dean a look that says "be nice". Dean's expression disagrees.

At the moment, though, I really couldn't care less how Dean feels about me. The memories are starting to catch up; the reinstatement euphoria is wearing off. The old images are starting to trickle back in -

_Mutilated bodies. Strips of flesh methodically stripped from heaving bodies. Pain - Pain - Pain - Pain -_

It took me a while at first, when I landed in Hell. Took me a while to realize that they weren't just heaving, bloodied bodies. They were the punished souls.

And one of them was me.

I walk over to the couch that sits opposite the dresser and take a seat on it, just to steady myself. The memory flow isn't a trickle anymore. Now it's like a split artery, pulsing out horrors with every heartbeat. I clench my jaw to keep my lips from trembling.

"Are you okay, Esca?" Sam asks. His tone is wary. A million miles away, it feels.

I squeeze my eyes shut, like that will block out the flood of remembrance, but it only makes it worse. The images flare on a black back-drop. So I force them open again and level a look at his head. "I'm fine," I say, too harshly to be believable.

He exchanges a meaningful look with his brother. There's something they're remembering, something I doubt they'll tell me. This time, it's Dean who speaks. "Don't try and pull that 'I don't remember Hell' bit on us. We know you're lying."

"Well, I didn't have any reason to go to Hell, so I shouldn't have gone. Ergo, I didn't go, and therefore, I can't remember what happened there since I _never went_," I reply. The argument helps me clear my head, or at least, push the memories away from the forefront of my mind.

"Then where were you?" Dean demands.

"I can't remember!" I shout. A million horses couldn't drag the words from my lips. _I went to Hell. I was punished, and I went to Hell. And I don't know why._ Lies are easier to swallow than the truth. That's why I became a lawyer in the first place. What better way to lie than through the law?

They still don't believe me. I can see it in their eyes. That pisses me off - not the fact that they think otherwise, but the fact that they think they have the right to know in the first place. I let out a low oath, then say, with the barest civility, "I'm here so you can call your friend, not so we can sit around and play Coke or Pepsi. Like you said, I'll be gone by morning. So, if it wouldn't be too much of a hassle, I'd like to get some sleep in before the sun rises. Sound good?"

After a long hesitation, the brothers nod. At that, I roll over and lie down on the couch. It's far too short, but I don't care. I toss my feet over the armrest.

The moment my head hits the couch, I'm gone.

My dreams are nightmares. No, worse - but there are no worse words. Somewhere in the back of my mind, in the part that realizes I'm dreaming, I take a small comfort in the fact that even when I was younger, what I was dreaming about never made it past my mind. I never cried out in the night, or shivered, or did anything other than sleep as I normally did. Sam and Dean, should they hope to discover the truth through my sleep, will find nothing. And maybe they'll start to believe me.

I don't know why the thought of them knowing the truth bothers me so much. Maybe it's because the last thing I want to do is show weakness. Maybe I'm worried they'll ask why.

Because, amid the tortures of my nightmares, I have moments of clarity - moments I haven't had since my death. And in them, I can put into words what had escaped me before: I don't know why I was in Hell.

Call me vicious, call me a sinner, but never call me evil. Never call me damned. I did what any hunter would, and yet, I never recalled any of my newcomers being one. I had stood apart, when I had done nothing to make that statement true.

So, somewhere along the way, I had decided it was something that was the matter with me, something inside that just didn't work. That realization, more than pissing me off, hurts. Because after what happened down there...I think it might just be the truth.

My torturers varied, but all of them said the same thing: I was going to be fun. Fun to break. Fun to play with. That's why they all wanted a piece of me - and that's how it went. They took to calling it the Infinite Years of Infinite Torment.

Every year, I'd get a new horror. The first year, I got the initiation. They strapped me down to a metal table, bound my legs and arms, and sliced me to ribbons, over and over until the blood pooled around me up to my ears. And the next day, it would start again. New flesh, new blood.

Some of the other souls got questioned at this point. I remember there was this one soul that one of the initiators had a lot of fun with, too. Alastair would ask him to switch sides at the end of every day - get up off the table and take up a knife against the others. I don't know what happened to him, but I know he didn't turn on the other souls, at least while I was there. I want to say I was proud of his resilience, but really, I was jealous. I wanted that question. And I wanted to say yes.

Then the next year came. I remember this one better because it was one of the earlier ones, one of my firsts. They lowered me into a vat of acid - hydrochloric, maybe, but then again, I was never a scientist - slowly, so that my nerve-endings fried one by one as I slowly submerged. Sometimes, the substance in the vat would change: fire, starving dogs, various other venoms. But they liked acid the best. Humans smell like burned pork when they dissolve.

The days, the weeks, the months would blur. If you asked me to recall a single second, I could in an instant, but until then, the moments would blend into one eternity. And I never got asked the question. Alastair never stopped by and asked me if I wanted out.

Then the next year came, and I moved on. A new demon took over, sharpened their stakes or prepped their curses, and stepped up to the plate. I was never asked. Never. Not once. They didn't want to give me a way out, because that's not what torment really is. Torment isn't turning on your fellow souls. That's just human nature. Humans get twisted; that's what we do best.

Torment is staying, and knowing that no matter what you do, there_ is_ no way out. Not if you cut up a million other people in return. The pain will never stop. And you get twisted, and more twisted, and more broken, but there's no release. There's no escape.

That is Hell.

Slowly, I sift awake. For a moment, I think it's morning, but it's just the lamp that one of the boys has suddenly turned on. When I hear the low murmur of Dean's voice, I close my eyes again, trying not to let on that I'm awake.

The focus helps me keep the images at bay.

"Sam, do you really think we can trust her?"

A rustling sound, like Sam's turning over in his bed. "We don't need to trust her. I meant what I said, about her being gone as soon as possible. But...Dean, don't you think...don't you think she could help?"

There's a stiff pause.

"Help with what?" Dean's voice is harsh, unyielding. He doesn't want to go wherever Sam is trying to go.

Sam lets out a sigh. "You know with what." Another hesitation, and another short exhalation. "Dean, if she really did go to Hell, then maybe - "

"Maybe what, Sam? Maybe I can have a heart-to-heart? Oh yeah, we'll be best friends. Braid each others' hair and everything." There's a pause for a glare. "Sam, there is no help. There never will be. Now stop trying."

"No. No, I won't." Dean tries to interrupt, but Sam continues on with the intensity of a runaway train. "Dean, you're not alone. And maybe I'm not the one who can help you, but maybe she is. You don't have to like her. Hell, you can hate her, for all it really matters. But you need help."

"I don't need help, Sam! I'll deal with this the same way I deal with everything else - "

"Yeah, and how's that? By pushing it away? That's all you do, Dean, is push things away. Push memories, push people. One day, they're going to push back, and you're not going to be strong enough to keep them away."

"Well maybe I don't want to be!"

The words almost echo in the suddenly silent air. I hold my breath. Without even needing to move, I can tell that they're not looking at each other. I know the feeling. I've had it with my brother sometimes. But these boys...they don't know how much you can start to miss everything once it's all gone.

I can hear one of them put their head in their hands. Sam sounds tired. "You don't mean that."

"Yes I do, Sam."

"No you don't. Now shut up and go to sleep." It has to be Sam who reaches over and turns out the light again. Now I can see the reflection of the digital clock in the TV screen: two forty-eight in the morning.

Dean must take his brother's advice, since he doesn't say another word. The two fall into silence, and then into sleep. I want to follow suit, but there's no way I'm shutting myself back up again with those memories. I know that now, when I'll go back, some of the worst years will be waiting for me. The year of the Hunt. The year of the Corpses. The year of the Dark. The year of the Man.

No. I won't go back. I roll over so that I'm looking at the ceiling, the avocado ceiling. I know I can't just not sleep forever, but as long as I get through this whole mess with these boys fine, then I can do it later. After I get at least some start into finding my brother, I'll sleep for a week. And I'll scream for a week. And then I'll be fine.

I reach out my hand and find the coffee table in the dark. Underneath it, there's a small shelf. My fingers land on a book, and I pull it out. I can't see what it is in the dark, since the only windows in the motel are curtained off, but my fingers run over a smooth leather cover.

Absently, I rifle through the pages. I wish there was some way to turn on a light without either Sam or Dean noticing, so I could read something to stay awake. I guess I'll just have to entertain myself with ripping this book slowly to shreds -

A tingle. A tingle at the tips of my fingertips, and then I can't stop it - a high-pitched keening that makes me clench my teeth at the very edge of my hearing. My teeth grind, and the pain hits, like a bludgeoning blow to my forehead. It sparks a flash of memory - in one of my years, I was slowly beaten to death with a wooden hammer. I could feel every blow, every crack in my skull, every dent - and it's happening again. Maybe it just feels like it. I don't know. I can't think.

Then one final blow, and it disappears. The keening lowers, still there, but lessened. Then, as if from far away, I hear words. A symphony of voices, of whispers, like the souls of the dead: "...his eyes were as a flame of fire. And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead. And he laid his right hand upon me, saying unto me, Fear not; I am the first and the last: I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death - "

With a mangled cry, I manage to heave the book off my chest; it's as though it gained a thousand pounds since I first picked it up. It lands on the floor with a thud, and I collapse back onto the couch, heart racing and lungs gasping for air. The words march around my brain, hissing, "I am alive for evermore - I am alive - the keys of hell and of death - death - "

My eyes shoot open and I fall off the couch, onto the book. Mind going blank, I slam it onto the table, pull out my pocket-knife, and flip out the longest blade I have. Then a shout escapes my lips, and I bring the knife down into the book, through leather, through paper, to the wooden table beneath. I do it again, and again, stabbing the book to pieces. At some point, the lamp turns on and the brothers come over and try to subdue me, but I can't stop. I can't let it hurt me or anyone else. It's just like the quarter - someone's coming to get me, someone's after me, something's _wrong_-

"Esca! Esca, stop!"

I blink. Suddenly, Sam is in front of me, hair in a mess from sleep, hazel eyes alert. Dean's holding my arms against my side, and every muscle in my body is tensed. Slowly, Sam reaches out and pulls the knife from my hand. I struggle to swallow through the lump in my throat.

Sam slides the remains of the book away from me. He glances down at the spine. "The Holy Bible."

"It's cursed. It's cursed. I swear to God, it..." I trail off, staring at the book. The Bible. Who would hex the Bible? What kind of twisted -

Sam flips through the pages, a good portion of them sifting out and piling on the table. He frowns, then nods at Dean. "Check for hex bags."

One of Dean's arms disappears as it digs around under the couch, but after half a minute of searching, it returns. I feel his chest vibrate against my shoulder as he speaks. "There's nothing."

"Well, there's nothing in here. It's just a Bible." They meet each others' eyes over my shoulder. Sam gives a clueless look at his brother. "It's just a Bible," he repeats.

"No it isn't," I protest, struggling against Dean's arms. I can tell that the efforts are going to fruitless, though. He's been a hunter longer than me, that's for sure. "It can't be 'just a Bible'. I heard it speak. It was saying things."

"I didn't hear anything," Dean says.

"You were asleep! Of course you didn't hear anything. The voices said - they said - " I shut my eyes as I try to remember the words. They come back one by one. "They said 'I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death'."

Sam gives me a dubious look, then sets the book back on the table, a long breath seeming to drag itself out of his throat. Then, as if something catches his eye, he sits up straighter. He digs out a page from one of the hundreds shed from the Bible, and rereads it.

His face becomes serious. He looks over at Dean, then hands him the paper wordlessly. Dean takes it and quickly skims the text. I can't see it, so I squirm around, but all I succeed in doing is getting a clear look of Dean's clenched jaw.

He looks back up at his brother. "Revelations."

"Exactly."

Dean lets go of me and stuffs the piece of paper in his pocket. I shakily get to my feet and look from one brother to the next. "What are you talking about?"

"Those words, they were from Revelations," Sam says. His voice is humorless. "The Apocalypse."

My knees give out, and I fall back onto the couch. "What are you talking about?"

"The book wasn't cursed, Esca. For some reason, you heard the words of Revelations, and we need to know why." Sam gives me one last look, then scoops up the pages and the destroyed Bible and stuffs them in a bag. Then he shrugs on his jacket. Dean has already done the same, and he stands at the door, ready to go.

I watch them, unsure what to do. It's too early in the morning, too early in my new life, just too early - period - for this stuff to be happening. They exchange a few curt words, but other than that, are set on the task at hand. They're almost out the door when Sam turns back and looks at me.

"Come on, Esca."

"Where are you going?"

"_We_ are going to meet with our friend." He uses the bag of Bible as evidence. "Clearly, a phone call isn't going to cut it."

Dean's words from earlier in the night flash through my head. "How do I know I can I trust you guys?"

Dean returns from where he was turning on his car. He gives me a shit-eating grin and says, "You don't. But you're the one spewing prophecies, lady, so unless you want to keep doing it, you should probably come with us."

I look at the floor. As much as I hate to admit it, they're right. And besides, if I go with them, there's less of a chance I'll fall asleep. And then I won't dream. Eventually, I nod. "Where's my knife?"

Sam gives me a once-over, probably wondering if it's safe to trust me with it again, but apparently comes to the conclusion that I'm done for the night, and pulls it from his pocket. He tosses it to me, and I catch it single-handedly.

I raise my eyebrows at them, and force a smirk to my lips. "Then let's get this show on the road."


	5. My Other Mechanic's A Demon

It takes Dean approximately ten seconds to remember that his tires are slashed. He straightens up from inspecting them, takes a deep breath, then turns to face me, leaning against the hood of his car. He raises his eyebrows at me.

"You just had to slash the tires, didn't you?"

"How did it get here in the first place?" I return, shoving the inch of remorse crawling up my throat back down. I cross my arms and keep my expression neutral.

Dean narrows his eyes, definitely about to spit out an angry reply, when Sam brushes by me and says, "Dean and I pushed it." Sam elbows Dean as he passes him and gives him a look. "It's a good thing the town mechanic's up. I just called him. He said we can drop by."

"What, we'll just roll up in my _broken car_?" Dean snaps. Sam just shrugs. His brother stares at him for a long second, then swears under his breath and pushes himself off the car. "Fine. But she's not touching my baby."

"Dude, she's going to ride in it."

"Well, she ain't touching it yet. It might explode." Dean shoots an accusatory look over the hood at me. He mouths, "Stay back."

Just to piss him off, I step back and say, "I wouldn't want to touch this piece of junk in a million years."

His entire body stills. Then, just as he opens his mouth to say something, Sam walks back around the car and shakes his head at him. Dean clenches his fists and glares at his brother. "She's talking dirt about my baby, Sammy."

"If you're too blind to see that she's just doing it for kicks, then go ahead, get into it. **I'm **still trying to pick up pieces of Bible from the floor." Sam disappears back into the motel room, toting the bag of Bible in his hand.

I watch him for a second, then give Dean a bright smile and say, "I'll go help him."

"Yeah, that's right! Run away!" he calls after me, his voice echoing across the empty parking lot. Sam lets out a low laugh when I get down beside him and start picking up shreds.

I glance at him sidelong, which he doesn't seem to notice. Just so that I have something to say, I ask, "Why are we picking up the pieces, anyway?"

He gives me the same shrug he gave Dean outside. "I don't really know. It could be important. Maybe it _is_ cursed, you know?"

Something about the way he says it makes me think it should really be, "I hope it's cursed." I dump what I've scrounged up into the bag and sit back on my heels. "You really don't want it to be Revelations, or whatever, do you?"

He pauses in his cleaning for a second, then looks away. "Not really. But with my luck, it's going to be exactly what I think it is."

"Well, if it's worth anything, I'm sorry for waking you up about it." I don't know where the sudden sympathy is coming from - I'm going to use this man to find my brother, and that's it - but his expression draws it out of me. I haven't seen a normal human face in a long time, but I still remember the look of complete helplessness - even when the person's trying to hide it.

He smiles a little. "Don't worry. I'm used to it."

"Being woken up, or being given prophecies of the apocalypse?"

"Both." He turns away and gives the floor one last look, then gets to his feet. "That's probably the best we're going to do. You make a good document shredder."

_Shredder_. I contain my reaction to a wince as I remember the year when Alastair took to me with a cheese grater. I swallow the bile that threatens to come up at the thought. The situation is immediately brought back into focus. Sam isn't my friend. Neither is Dean. I need to find Rade, and I need to forget Hell.

Ha. As if that's going to happen.

"Yeah," I say, subdued. "I'll take the Bible. You and your brother should probably start pushing that car already, since I'm not allowed to help."

Sam hands me the bag, which I shoulder carefully, but pauses at the door. He looks a little awkward as he says, "Dean...he doesn't mean it personally. Or, it wasn't personal to begin with. I think that slashing his tires probably didn't help."

I nod. "I get it. There's history, and I'm not going to find out what it is. It's cool."

"Esca - "

"I'm serious. We're just doing this one thing for each other, then I'm gone." I fix my gaze on his so he knows I'm serious. "Now go push the car."

Sam frowns a little, but he doesn't argue for a second longer. I follow him out, turning out the lights and shutting the door behind me. They left their keys on the table, which is what I used to do when I left abruptly in the middle of the night. It's something that happens far too often for hunters. It's something I can't wait to start doing again, because it means that I'm not in Hell anymore. It means that life is getting back to normal.

The air is cool, but as soon as Sam sees that I'm only wearing my old t-shirt, he tugs off his pale green coat and hands it to me. I take it only because I think he won't let me say no. He grins. "I'll be pushing the car anyway."

Cautiously, I shrug it on. It's warm, and smells faintly of sweat, beer, and motel sheets. I bet I smell similarly, minus the beer, which I'm dying to have now. The Bible attack has left a nasty headache, and a little alcohol might help keep it at bay.

Sam and Dean exchange looks, then put their hands on the front bumper of their car and push it out of the parking space. They've got to be pretty strong, since it doesn't take much longer for them to wheel it out onto the street. At this time of night, in this small a town, there's not a single car left on the roads.

"Which way?" Dean asks, sucking in a deep breath as they took a brief pause.

Sam glances at the street names, then wrinkles his nose. "That way."

"_Uphill_?"

He gives Dean a sheepish look, then dusts his hands off and starts pushing again. Dean watches him for a second, then gives me a look that clearly says, "You've got to be kidding me." He catches up with his brother and keeps pushing.

I follow beside them for a moment, then realize that this is going to get real awkward, real fast. I don't like the feeling. I didn't have an issue with feeling awkward back in Hell - but then again, most of the time I couldn't talk, so there wasn't really any pressure to make conversation.

Still, I decide that this is definitely going to be the longest walk of my life, so I re-shoulder the bag of Bible and say, "I'll go up ahead and talk to the mechanic."

"Oh, yeah, that'll help," Dean gets out.

I ignore him and face Sam instead. "Is it just straight along this way?"

He nods without looking up. "We'll meet you there in fifteen."

With that, I pick up my pace and hurry down the street. Sam's jacket is warm, but I guess the blood isn't used to pumping, and I'm still chilled. I wonder what time of year it is. I died in the early summer, so it's got to be at least November. There's going to be snow here soon, that's for sure.

I see the mechanic's at the end of the street. The garage door is open, and there's the mechanic waiting under the porch light. I give him a slight wave, which he doesn't return. Something about the way he's staring at me doesn't feel right. Hell, this entire situation doesn't feel right, if I think about it long enough.

But I'm just being paranoid. Target or no target on my back, there's no way someone found out about me coming back yet.

I mean, without trying to brag, I'm a good hunter. A damn good hunter. I've killed a lot of things, and exorcised a lot of demons. And most of them - all right, _all_of them - hate me for it.

I near the mechanic. Across the street, I call, "They're coming with the Impala. It'll just be a sec."

"Are they the Winchester brothers? They said they'd be here." The man's eyes flick to mine. "I've been looking forward to meeting them."

_Shit._ I force the uneasiness away. _It's just in your head, Esca. He's just a mechanic._ Instead of stabbing him in the chest, which is what I really want to do, I shrug. "I don't know. They're just giving me a ride."

The man's lips twist up in a smile. "If you say so."

I don't reply. As nonchalantly as I can, I put my hand in the pocket of my jeans. My fingers latch onto the Swiss Army knife. The mechanic turns back to the street, eyes scanning the road. There aren't any street-lights, and the boys are a block or two away, so it's hard to see them. I know they're coming, though. Maybe I should wait for them?

Wait, what? Since when do I wait on anyone else?

My grip tightens on the knife, and I step into the street. Putting on an innocent smile, I say, "You know, it's real nice of you to help us so late."

The man's eyes don't leave the street. "Yeah. Sure."

I move a little closer. I'm within striking distance, but I'm not entirely sure yet. Small-town people can be weird. I remember this one case I worked once where everyone thought it was a ghost haunting, but it was really just a little boy who thought he was in a video game. I pull out the knife and flip out the blade behind my back.

I don't think the mechanic will make it out alive. It's too bad, since he's not half bad, appearance-wise. Still, this silver blade, while not enough to kill or even wound a demon, might tick him off enough to leave the body. And with the design I'm cutting into my palm right now - a lock that keeps demons out - he's not getting into mine.

"No, really," I say earnestly. "We all appreciate it."

He gives me an odd look, removing his gaze from the horizon momentarily. In my peripheral vision, I can see Sam and Dean, just a block away.

I smirk. "_Christo_."

He winces, and in the wince, his eyes turn black - pure, empty black. My smirk turns into a grin, and before he can do anything else, I whip up my knife and jab it through his neck.

The blood immediately begins to spurt, and he clutches his hands to the wound. Somehow, he still manages to speak. Blood sprays from his lips. "You're the little corpse girl, aren't you?"

"I'm twenty-two, thanks," I say in an exaggerated tone of affront.

He grins, his teeth stained red with his own lifeblood. "Doesn't matter. You'll be dead soon. You'll all be dead. And demons will reclaim the Earth as is their right."

I snort. "Yeah, right. Get over yourselves."

He removes his hands from his neck and reaches out to grab me, but I knock his hands aside. From down the street, I hear a shout - I guess the brothers have seen my beating up their mechanic. There's the sound of approaching footsteps.

The mechanic bares his teeth in a savage grin. "Too bad. I was really hoping I'd get to meet the boys."

With that, he throws his head back and spews the dark, oily demon smoke from his lips, which spirals off into the night sky and disappears. The man's body, now un-possessed, collapses to the pavement. The blood flow is slowing down, but a puddle begins to pool all the same.

I look down at my hands, inspecting the splatters of blood on my clothes and the stuff dripping from my knife. I scrunch up my nose in annoyance, then wipe the blood off on my pant-leg. There are a few drops on Sam's jacket, but not enough to make it a complete throw-away.

And suddenly, Sam's beside me, breathing labored. He looks down at the mechanic's cooling body, then over at me. He doesn't say anything for a moment, then asks, "Demon?"

"Demon."

"Well, that's just great!" I look around Sam at Dean, who's staring at the corpse. He looks back at his Impala, which is halfway up the hill. "I'll just fix her myself, then."

Sam turns back with his brother to go finish rolling up the car, but I stop him. "He was looking for you. Said something about finally wanting to meet the Winchester boys. I'm assuming that's your last name."

A muscle twitches in his jaw, and he nods.

The space between us falls prey to a stiff silence, before I feel my palm stinging and remember my precaution. I gesture at the car with my head. "You have a first-aid kit? I didn't want to get possessed, so I had to make some...quick decisions."

I show him my palm, and the design carved into it. He raises his eyebrows at me. "You just did that?"

"I used to have it scarred in there, but when whatever de - " I cut myself off before I say demon, then start again. "When whatever it was that brought me back flipped the switch, they must have erased it."

He looks at the succession of quick cuts for a second longer, then nods again and we head back to the car. Dean has struggled it up another half a block on his own, probably channeling his anger into the effort. It seems like the kind of thing he would do.

"Glad you could make it," he tells Sam when we walk over. "Now get your ass in gear and help."

Sam gives me an apologetic shrug, then says, "We'll fix your hand up in the shop."

They push it up the remainder of the way, spitting curses out on the pavement. When it finally rolls to a stop in front of the garage, Dean straightens and pins me with a death-glare. "I hope you're happy, Jessica - "

"_Esca._"

"First you slash my tires, then you kill the mechanic. Are you trying to make this impossible? Because you're doing a great job about it." He wipes his hands on his jeans, tosses me one final acidic look, then turns and walks into the garage. He flicks on the light and begins rummaging around in the piles of equipment, muttering something about a suspension jack.

Sam dusts off his hands too and goes around the side of the car to pull out the first-aid kit. I'm used to not having medical attention right away, so I wouldn't have minded if they hadn't had anything, but I'm sort of glad they do. Even if it means relying on people I barely know.

He beckons me over and rips open an antiseptic wipe. His expression is halfway to uncomfortable. He takes my hand and begins wiping it down. I don't let the hiss of pain escape my lips. I've had a lot of practice in Hell.

He glances up through his hair at me. "It's a good thing you got hurt when you did."

I give him an odd look before he rephrases. "No - I mean, we don't normally have a first-aid kit with...all this. We restocked a few days ago."

"Oh...okay," I return. I take the wipe from Sam and rub off the rest of the blood on my other hand. Then Sam pulls out a wad of gauze and tapes it to my hand.

He smooths down the edges and half-smiles. "That should hold, as long as we don't run into any more demons tonight."

"You done playing doctor? Because I'm not changing these tires alone." Dean appears from the depths of the garage toting a red car-jack and a rusting wrench. He nods at the car.

Sam holds in a sigh, then gets off the car and helps Dean maneuver the jack under the car's carriage. While they're starting into it, I open up the back door and place the bag of Bible carefully in one of the back seats, then slam the door again. I watch what they're doing for a moment, then, not wanting to stand still for long, I offer, "I could find some tires that'll fit around the back."

"You do that," Dean retorts, the top half of his body under the car. "I wish you the best of luck."

He clearly thinks I can't do it. Well, I guess I'll just have to prove him wrong. I bend over to glance under the car, then straighten and walk off. Over my shoulder, I say, "Thanks. Just don't rupture the spring valve. That jack is getting pretty close."

The shifting under the car stops for a moment. Then I hear Dean drop his wrench. "Son of a bitch."

I grin.


	6. Oh Baby, Lie To Me

The car is still dark by the time I come back to my senses. I remove my head from the window, feeling my vertebrae realign from the cramped position. I don't get why Dean is so attached to this car. I have an appreciation for the classics as much as the next girl, but there's nothing wrong with having a little more comfort every now and then. Still, it's better than Hell.

The last few hours of the ride have been silent. I dropped off the conversation pretty quickly, but since I wouldn't let myself sleep, I spent the time running over sections of my civil law textbook in my head. It's been nearly two years since I last went to class, but I carried a few of my textbooks with be on my hunts. They never served any real purpose. Maybe I kept them because I hoped I would go back someday.

After what happened to me, I don't know if that's going to happen or not.

I shift in my seat and readjust the seat-belt. My clothes didn't last well underground, and while they held up for the first few hours of being back, they're still musty and a little uncertain in terms of more long-term wearing. They're starting to chafe under the belt. I make a mental note to hand-wash them so they don't fall apart on me in a machine.

The noise alerts Dean, who removes his eyes from the dark road ahead and glances at me through the rear-view mirror. In the dim reflected light from the headlights, his eyes are similar to his brother's, if a little lighter.

"Hey, it's Trance Girl." His voice is deep, but quieter than normal. I don't understand for a second, but the moment his eyes flicker over to his brother, I see why. Sam is resting against the door, asleep. His muscular arms are dotted with goosebumps under his short-sleeved shirt, and I guiltily pull his jacket closer across my chest.

"Yeah, I get it. You're the king of witty repartee." The phrase kind of slips out. My jaw instantly clenches. It's what I used to call Rade. The only difference is, this man is far from being my brother.

"Why thank you," Dean replies, sounding mildly pleased.

I glare at the back of his head for a long moment, then turn back to the window. From my vague knowledge of American geography, I know we're heading west. West from Ohio will take us into Indiana, maybe Iowa. At this point, I don't really care anymore. The closer we get to our destination, the closer I am to getting away from these boys and finding my brother.

Dean lets the silence drag on for a bit before saying, "I don't believe you."

"What?"

"I don't believe that you don't remember where you were. No one just comes back to life like that. There was demon deal in there somewhere, and the best thing to fix a demon deal is another deal." His eyes are back on the road, but I don't doubt that he's focused on the conversation. "You can lie all you want to Sam, but don't try that with me."

His persistence is annoying me. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind for when I actually lie to you."

I can see his jaw clench. He's really ticked off - though, I'm not sure if I understand why. It's me who died, not him. I drop my hands from where they're stuffed into my jacket and sit forward a little. The bandages around my bloodied palm are stiff. "What does it even matter to you?"

"It just matters, all right?"

I recall the short conversation I caught between him and his brother in the early hours of the morning and wonder whether I should bring it up. The hesitance isn't to spare his feelings; I'm not sure if I should reveal I heard it just yet. Maybe I should wait for more information.

Maybe I shouldn't. "Is this because of what you were talking to Sam about? About needing help?"

His eyes flick up to meet mine in the rear-view mirror. "I don't need help."

"Neither do I, but you're giving it." At his scowl, I add, "Unwillingly, on your part."

"Yeah, well, if neither of us needs help, maybe we should stop trying to get involved," he retorts, and returns his eyes to the road. His knuckles are tight on the steering wheel. "How does that sound?"

"It sounds like a half-assed attempt to lie to me, which is exactly what you're convinced I'm doing to you. Which I'm not. So if you're not lying, maybe you should stop telling me that I am." I sit back, glad that he fell into the ploy. Now he's got to admit he's lying - which, to be honest, I really don't care about - or he's got to admit that he's not, in which case, I can't be lying either.

Sometimes law school comes in handy.

He thinks about that for a moment, then smirks. "I see what you did there."

"So what's the verdict?" I reply.

Dean takes in a deep breath and says, "Undecided."

"Sure, be difficult. I really don't care. I'm gone as soon as we figure out why I'm spewing Bible verses." I cross my arms over my chest and settle into the seat, tucking my legs up beside me.

"Good," Dean says, nodding to himself. "The faster you're gone, the faster I can get back to not worrying about you breaking my car every ten seconds."

"I did _not_ break your car. I just...broke your tires. And then I helped you fix them again, which makes it a moot point anyways."

Dean snorts. "You clearly don't know how this whole 'being sorry' thing works."

"Yeah, well, ditto," I snap. He's being unreasonably stubborn about this whole thing. Still, though I'll never admit it, I'm sort of glad we're getting into an argument. I was running out of deposition clauses, and this serves as good a distraction as any.

Dean drives in silence for a minute or so longer before asking in a less certain voice, "Hey, how did you know so much about cars, anyways?"

I think back to the hot summer days sitting with my brother on the hood of his '67 Plymouth, joking about the future and filling shotgun rounds with rock salt. The memories taste like bitter lemonade, shimmering asphalt, and old paint. There's no way the words are making it out of my mouth.

So instead, I shrug and say, "I watched a lot of TV when I was younger."

"Sure thing, Esca," he replies. Before I can open my mouth to protest his disbelief, he goes on. "You should probably get to sleep. We've still got a six hour drive ahead of us."

I flinch at the thought, then swallow tightly and check his expression to see if he noticed. I guess I've lucked out - his gaze is still fixed to the road. I shift slightly on the back seat and shake my head. "I'm not tired."

"Yes you are." His eyes flick up to meet mine, and he grins. "Believe me, I know."

I don't bother trying to decode his meaning. I have a feeling that Dean has too many layers to sort through on my level of sleep. Instead, I just shift my body so my legs are lying across the back seat and my head's resting against the window. I swivel my head away from the front of the car so he can't see my face.

"There. My eyes are shut. Happy?" I ask, watching the road disappear into the dark. The faintest rays of dawn are shooting through the clouds behind us. Six hours will probably take us to noon, maybe past that. For a moment, I feel a flash of weariness - I'm already running on fumes. How long am I supposed to stay awake for? How long will it take for the nightmares to subside?

But I already know the answer. And the answer is, they never will.

So we drive on, and I pretend to sleep, and Dean pretends to believe it.

* * *

><p>"So, Esca," Sam says, breaking me away from the memory of my first day at Harvard. I've been sifting through memories for the six hours to keep thoughts of Hell at bay. I blink and turn to look at the back of his head. "How did you get into the monster hunting business?"<p>

"Extenuating circumstances," I say flatly. Great. Another memory I'd rather not relive. Keeping my tone neutral, like the words I'm saying don't affect me, I continue, "A spirit started killing my friends. I stopped it."

"Then how did your brother get into it?" Dean asks.

"Part of the family business."

"But - "

I cut Sam off before he can get any further in the sentence. "He wanted in. I didn't. And it didn't end up mattering anyways."

The brothers frown in unison. There's a wordless exchange between them, communicated through meaningful looks and gestures. Then, Dean says, "You're kidding us, right?"

"Oh, yeah, I live to make my life a mockery for you," I snap back. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Sam pivots in his seat to look at me, then says, "Never mind. It's just...kind of like our story."

"_Sam_," Dean says, a warning in his voice.

For some reason, the implication that I'm like these two annoys me. Maybe it's the fact that they're clearly practiced hunters, and after my stint in Hell, I'm really regretting my psychotic break that led to my involvement in this business in the first place. "Well, that's just dandy for you guys, but I doubt it."

"Yeah. I'm going to side with Esca on this one," Dean adds. The cautioning tone remains. "She's not like us."

"Oh, come on, Dean," Sam protests. "Just because you hate chick-flick moments doesn't mean you need to cut her off entirely - "

"Excuse me," I interrupt, "but why do you think I'm here, again? Because I'm pretty sure I'm leaving as soon as we figure out why I started upchucking Bible verses. And that's it."

Sam looks from me to his brother, then sits back in his seat and stares out the window. The midday sun glints off the side-view mirror so I can't get a good look at his expression, but I'm willing to bet my Swiss Army knife that he's scowling.

The atmosphere in the Impala goes from tense to irate. I glance outside at the slowly developing city around us and ask, "Where are we, anyways?"

"Sioux Falls, South Dakota," Dean replies, after Sam says nothing. He peeks over at his brother as if he's about to say something to him, but turns back to the road instead and readjusts his hands on the wheel. "Our friend Bobby has a mechanic shop out here."

He pauses at that, then glances back at me and says, "You don't plan on killing him too, do you?"

I roll my eyes and don't dignify the question with an answer. In lieu of talking, I turn to the window and watch the downtown shops pass by. I don't know what day of the week it is, and the number of people out and about could be typical for really any weekday. Lunchtime means that they're sitting in cutesy cafes, chatting about anything but work.

It's so absolutely normal, and for a moment, the thought causes an unjustified anger to rise in my chest. They don't know what's waiting for them. Or some of them, anyways - I'm sure some people manage to luck out and get into heaven.

"So...this Bobby guy. He's trustworthy?" I ask, shifting away from the window.

"More than you," Dean replies.

I sigh exasperatedly. "What I meant was, can I trust him to keep this secret?"

"What, worried someone'll spread some nasty gossip?" Dean meets my gaze in the rear-view mirror and takes in my seriousness. He doesn't even contemplate it further. "You can trust him."

I hold the connection for a little longer, then duck my head, nodding. "Good."

Dean drives us through the city and turns down a dirt road. The rocks in the ground crunch under the car's tires. Eventually, we come upon a lot, half-filled with rusting cars. There's a small-ish, slightly ramshackle house on the property, and I think I see the roof of a garage out among the rust heaps.

Dean pulls the car to a stop just in front of the house. He and Sam get out, stretching as they do. Twelve hours is a long time to be in a car. I'm a little more hesitant. As far as I'm concerned, I can't trust these brothers as far as I can throw them. But I _do_ owe them for taking me in for the night, and helping me out with the Bible - not that I'll ever tell them that.

Slowly, I slide out of the car and slam the door behind me. The air is temperate, maybe 63 degrees. Colder than Hell, but warmer than Ohio, so whatever.

The air is dusty and smells of brake fluid and motor oil. I walk a few steps behind the men as they head to the front door, noting the similarities in their gaits. Maybe they don't look alike, but they've been around each other for a long time. They're close.

Of course, I might have gathered that from their conversations. I had never had conversations like that with Rade. I mean, I loved him and all, and I didn't take him for granted, but we'd been on opposite sides of the family's name for a long time. We had only just reunited a year ago, plus however many months I spent in Hell. I never nagged him about getting help, because I'd never known what he needed help for.

He always seemed to know about me, though.

I'm startled from the memories at the three sharp, commanding knocks on Bobby's door. Dean lowers his hand to the doorknob and pushes it inwards. "Bobby?" he yells into the dark confines of the house. "You here?"

"Where else would I be, ya igit?" comes a gruff voice. Only, it doesn't come from the inside of the house. It comes from behind me.

The three of us whirl around to see a scruffy-looking man in his fifties. He's wearing a baseball cap, and his t-shirt is stained with carburetor grease. He's got a wrench in his hand, so I assume he was working out among the cars somewhere when we drove up.

He looks from Sam and Dean to me, and his already-wary expression closes further. "Who's your friend?"

"Jessica. She's...ah...what you said was going to happen. At the cemetery." Sam sounds awkward saying it, like he's worried I'll be offended. Like I didn't overhear their entire conversation when they traipsed into my place of eternal rest.

He raises his eyebrows at me. "So that's what that message meant."

"What message?" I ask. For some reason, I feel a little cowed talking to him. I don't normally feel this way. The last person I'd felt like this with was my father.

"The message in the toolbox," he says, vague on purpose. He looks back to the men behind me. "And you just decided to bring her here?"

I hear Dean shift a little on the dusty wood of the porch. "Well, yeah."

"You were just supposed to go check it out. I don't know what to do with her." At Sam's scoff of disbelief, he continues, "You just dragged this girl all the way from Ohio?"

"That's not why I let them take me here," I say. I see what Dean meant, about being able to trust him. Like I said, I'm a good judge of people - or I can be - and that's definitely the vibe I'm getting off of him. "It's because we're kind of confused about something. I'll be gone as soon as we figure it out."

"Who says I'm going to help you with that?"

"Bobby," Sam breaks in, "she started spewing Revelations."

Bobby's face hardens. "What happened?"

Sam nudges me from behind, and I clear my throat before saying, "I was holding the Bible, then there was this...high-pitched shriek, I guess, but it must have been in my head, since they didn't hear it. And then the shriek turned into voices - a lot of voices. And they were whispering Revelations." I leave out the part about the skull-splitting headache that occurred in the interim.

Bobby looks at me for a long second, then says, "You could be connected to the angels. Or this is a prophecy, in which case, I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to do. Either way, Jessica, I think you're not going to be leaving just yet."

"It's Esca," I say out of habit. I'm still trying to overcome the sense of...wrongness that has settled into my mind. The diagnosis isn't right. I don't know what the correct one would be, or how I'd be able to figure it out, but I just know that Bobby's wrong about this. It's something different. That coin at the police station wasn't about to make me spit up Bible verses.

Something like that must show on my face. Bobby frowns a little more, then steps forward and holds out his wrench. "Could you hand this to Dean, Esca?"

I swallow, then snatch the wrench out and practically toss it at Dean. Surprised, he tosses it back, and I catch it so it won't fall on my toes. I freeze in indecision, then drop the wrench into the dirt.

"Esca," Bobby says, "is there something you left out of your little story?"

I feel Sam and Dean's eyes narrow in on my face, and I look down at the wrench between my feet. I rub my hands together to get off the lingering specks of rust, my bandages tugging at my split skin painfully, then straighten and look Bobby in the eye. "Maybe a little."

He gestures grandly for me to continue.

I glance at the brothers, then back at Bobby. "It's happened before."

There's a silence.

Then Dean. "Well, shit."


	7. Madame Esca, the Stupendous Psychometric

"It's not that big of a deal, really."

I'm sitting on one of Bobby's rickety kitchen chairs. The kitchen itself is somewhat cluttered, and there are a series of phones on one wall, all with labels of different government agencies written on them. The three of them are drinking beers, but none of them sit. I guess they're kind of stumped. I am too.

"It really is," Bobby says, pushing off from one of the walls. He scratches his head through his baseball cap. "We've already got a prophet, so I don't think - "

"A_ what_?"

" - that you're just getting prophecies," he continues as though I didn't say a word. "You said in the first one you just heard that screech again?"

"Yes," I say, short-tempered. "A screech. And then I threw the coin across the room, and it stopped. If you don't know what the problem is, then I should probably hit the road. I have to find my brother."

This time, it's Dean who speaks. "Oh yeah? And how do you plan on doing that, huh? You don't even know the date."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Yeah, and that's so important to finding my brother." When no one says anything, I look down at my hands, one still wrapped in a stiff, white bandage. My fingers trace the scar encircling my right wrist that I've had since forever, and I ask, in a quieter voice, "What _is _the date, now that we're on the subject?"

"November second," Sam says. "That mean anything to you?"

I take in a deep breath and quickly count back the time. "It means I was dead for five months, give or take. And I missed my twenty-third birthday. Then again, does it even count? I was a worm buffet when it happened."

The room falls prey to an awkward pause, then Bobby quips, "You guys brought home a real bundle of sunshine, didn't you."

"Hey, I was dead, thank you very much," I lash out, rising to my feet. "You can poke fun at me all you want but I've lived through some crazy shit, and I don't need to stick around to listen to you make some dumb show like it doesn't mean anything."

"I thought you didn't remember where you were," Dean says softly from the doorway to the living room.

"Would you stop it with that?" I ask, whirling on him. "I don't remember. Maybe I was in Hell. Maybe I was in Limbo. Maybe I was even Heaven, if I was really, really lucky. It doesn't matter anymore since I'm back here. I lived a little before I died, you know. I'm a hunter just like you."

"You've got to be more than that!" Dean explodes, hazel-green eyes bright. He's gripping the empty beer bottle at his side like a weapon, fingers tight around the neck. "No one just comes back to life like that. Demons don't_ do_ those kinds of deals."

"Well, maybe one of the Powers That Be took an interest in me," I retort.

"Bullshit."

"Dean," Sam snaps. "Stop it."

Dean fixes his eyes on his brother. I hadn't know who was the eldest, but now I'm almost certain that it's him. "No,_ you_ stop it, Sammy. It's your fault she's here in the first place. If you hadn't gotten it into your head that I need help, then we could have let her run and be done with all of this. Now we've got a prophetic so-called hunter on our hands who, let's not forget, hates my guts."

"You catch on quick," I say. "And it's not 'so-called' when it's actually true. Just a little FYI for you."

"You're all overreacting," Bobby puts in. He sounds the calmest out of all of us. He takes a short sip from his beer and looks at each of us individually. "There's an easy solution."

I glance at him and raise an eyebrow. "Pray tell."

"You can leave." He shrugs at the confused expressions on the rest of our faces. "You want to find your brother, don't you? I have a few ideas about what your problem is, but clearly, you've got a handle on it."

It takes a few seconds to realize that the last part was spoken in complete sarcasm. I scowl. "It only happened twice."

"Then prove it's not a problem."

"How?"

He glances around the room, then peeks around Dean and walks into the living room. He shuffles around for a bit, then returns with a silver dagger. He weights it in his hand for a second, then hands it over. I take it because that seems to be the only course of action at this point.

"What do you want me to do with this?" I ask, feigning dumb.

He doesn't bother answering. I suck in a tight breath and tighten my grip on the blade. The edges bite into my palm, not hard enough to draw blood. The air is quiet, taut. Nothing happens.

"Well, there goes that theor - "

_Wham. _An invisible force slams into my forehead, and my head jerks back. The second time, I collapse to the floor. Somewhere, my rational brain screams to drop the knife, but my muscles have spasmed, and my fingers are clenched around the dagger like a vise. A keening moan crawls from the back of my mind. The third slam, and my head bangs back into the floor.

And suddenly, it all stops. I open my eyes from where they've been clamped shut and jolt back as an image flashes before my eyes: a field strewn with rotting corpses. The image widens until I'm sitting in the vision, sitting in a pool of warm blood, sitting in the middle of somewhere else.

Then, as quickly as it all came together, the world crumbles apart, the grey skies melting into the dead horizon and swirling into blackness.

I blink, and I'm back in the kitchen. My legs are splayed out at awkward angles and a sharp pain in my right hand tells me that the blade cut into my palm when I seized up. My head is pounding. Heaving deep breaths, I work myself up on my elbows.

The three men stand over me. Bobby looks like he expected as much. Sam looks concerned. Dean just looks a little confused.

Bobby reaches down to help me up, and I automatically lift my hand to accept it, but just before my skin touches his, I pull back. It's with a deep regret that I realize my fingers are shaking. A sign of weakness.

"What was that?" I ask. I taste blood in my mouth. I must have bit my tongue.

"What was what?" Bobby returns. "What did you see?"

I think back to the flash of a memory, feeling bile rise in my throat. Swallowing, I say, "A battlefield. I don't know what era - I couldn't see a clear picture. Just - just vague stuff. Decaying bodies. Blood. There was blood everywhere. I was sitting in it - "

I cut myself off, looking down at my clothes to check for the scarlet liquid. There's nothing on my clothes. Whatever kind of vision that was, it was all in my head. Slowly, I release my grip on the silver dagger, and it clatters to the wooden planks of the kitchen floor. Its sides are crimson. To staunch what little blood flow there is, I press my palms together to share the bandage.

Bobby just nods. "That would be the Battle of the Somme. World War One, nineteen-sixteen. One of the bloodiest battles of the war."

"Thanks for the history lesson." The quip was intended to be witty, but it just sounds tired to my ears. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Sam pulls over my chair, and I shakily get into it. My heart is still racing. It was all so vivid -

"This dagger - " He brandishes the knife, which he has rescued from the floor, " - was taken into battle by a vampire hunter. He died in the war. I found it at an auction recently."

"Wonderful. I get battle flashbacks for dead soldiers." I lock my hands together and rest my forehead on them, shutting my eyes.

"It means, you just saw what was probably the most traumatic experience this blade went through." When he hears how that sounds, he rephrases."You experienced the most impacting moment in this dagger's history."

"And that means?"

Bobby makes move to shrug, but I guess something in my expression stops him from lying. He takes in a deep breath, then blows it out and says, "I'm pretty sure it means you're psychometric. It's very rare, even as far as psychic abilities are concerned. To give you a better idea, it's more popular in novels than it is in real life."

"Oh, this makes me special, huh?" I say, not removing my head from where it's still resting against my knuckles.

He shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. I'm not saying you're a chosen one or anything. It's just...different from other psychic abilities, in that it can't just originate on its own. People can be born with the ability to prophecy, or read thoughts, or charm-speak others into doing their bidding. Psychometry is one of the few capabilities that is borne out of some...other power."

I don't like the way he says it. "What do you mean, 'other power'?"

For some reason, he glances at Sam when he replies. "Like...demons."

I let out a bark of humorless laughter. "You're funny."

"Well, I could be wrong," he says gruffly. The tone clearly indicates that he doubts it.

I stare at him for a long second, then force myself to my feet. "No, you know what, this is crazy. I mean, I'm a hunter. I've seen some messed up stuff. But...none of it happened to me. I've never been possessed. I've barely even run into possessed people. I don't have contact with demons."

Except for in Hell. I had plenty of contact with them there. But I was dead then. I don't know if it counts.

"I'm not sure about the specifics." Bobby looks over at his living room, which is lined with stacks of books. "I think this requires a little research. Boys?"

Dean lets out a sigh, whereas Sam just accepts it. They walk off and start rustling through some of the stacks. I hear Dean mutter, "I don't even know what we're looking for."

Sam replies something semi-insulting, and a light banter starts up. I don't pay attention when Bobby steps a little closer and takes my hands, examining them like a scientist at work. He pulls off the bandage and frowns at the jagged lines cut into my flesh.

"Plan B?" he asks.

"I didn't want the mechanic's demon getting in," I explain.

He tosses the bandage on the table and rummages around in the cupboards before pulling out a first-aid kit of his own. He hands me an antiseptic wipe to scrub off the remaining flecks of blood, then puts on a new bandage. I reuse the wipe on my other hand, but the cuts are shallow enough that I shake my head at Bobby's proffered band-aids.

He looks at my hands for a second, then turns around to put away the kit. "So your connections seem to be based on skin-to-object contact with your hands?"

I shrug. "I'm not getting feels from my shirt or anything."

"Then I think I've got a temporary solution." Bobby heads over to his desk and roots around in the drawers for a moment before turning back and dropping a pair of leather gloves on the table, the tags still on. "They're new, never been worn. They shouldn't have experienced any big things yet, so you should be fine for now. I don't know if you'll be able to control your abilities in the future."

"Is there any way to just get rid of them?" I ask, picking up the gloves and sliding my hands into them, careful not to press too hard on my palms. I've barely been alive for a day and already my hands are deli meat.

Bobby looks like he wants to say yes, but can't. "It's unlikely, Esca."

A wave of hopelessness rises in my chest. "Great. That's just great."

"People can deal with these things, Esca. I've known my share of psychics, and hunters, too; I should know."

At the remark, I pause. "About that... Did you ever come across a hunter by the name of Rade Montgomery?"

Another frown. It seems to be one of the main modes for his face. "Heard of him."

"That's it?"

"Nothing much." He gives me an apologetic look. At the sound of the banter turning a little less friendly, he looks over my head and levels a father-like glare at the brothers in the other room. "You igits can't work together for five straight minutes?"

There's a cowed silence.

"I'm coming to help," Bobby says. To me, he says, "You can walk around for a bit. Maybe look around the lot. You look like you need a little space."

Maybe I do at that. I nod and stand up, then head for the door. It barely swings shut behind me before I hear more chastisement from Bobby aimed at the men.

The sun is still bright outside. It's maybe three in the afternoon. I'm a little hungry - we stopped for breakfast, but not for lunch. They hadn't wanted to stop, and I hadn't bothered to argue.

The day smells of sun-warmed metal and dry earth. It's warm enough that Sam's jacket is enough for me. The sleeves go about five inches past my fingertips and the hem hits me mid-thigh, but I don't mind.

There are three paths through the car heaps. Some of the vehicles actually seem to be in working condition, wedged between rusted monsters that could never be salvaged. None of them look more promising than the others, so I do a quick eenie-meenie-mo in my head and choose the path closest to the house.

I see the roof of a garage in the distance. As I approach it, I start to be able to make out the tools laid out on one of the benches. A car sits under a dark tarp in the center of the floor.

I shuffle through the tools on the desk. Crescent wrench, 12-bit screw head, grease cloth. When I reach that green rag, smudged with spots of dark liquid, I pause. Something about it seems familiar.

I backtrack to the crescent wrench, the sensation growing. My gloved fingers run along its surface, then flip it over. There it is. The strip of white tape, now stained brown from the tool's use, with a single, Sharpied name. Rade.

I crouch down and look under the bench. The red toolbox that used to sit in the trunk of the Plymouth now sits in the dirt. Heart starting to pound, I pull it out and set it on the bench. Then, slowly, my eyes are drawn up to the car beneath the blue tarp.

I race around the bench and whip the stiff plastic away. My brother's '67 Plymouth GTX is in the same condition as I last saw it, black paint rustless and chrome still gleaming. It's his car. I can just tell, without needing to check the front seat for the dark patch from when my brother's back got clawed up by a werewolf and he had to make a quick getaway.

It's his car.

Which means Bobby was lying.

I take a slow step backwards, then turn and break into a sprint. Dust flies out from beneath my feet. I don't know what this means, but I intend to make Bobby spill his guts, be it metaphorically or literally. I learned a lot from watching it happen to myself in Hell.

I climb up the stairs, preparing to bang through the front door, but the sound of low conversation makes me hesitate. Instead of carrying through, I step back a little and inch down the stairs. There's a window in the living room, if I remember correctly. I slink around the side of the house until I come upon it. The window's cracked open to let in a breeze.

I can hear Bobby talking. "...and speaking of, I think we have a problem."

"Since when do we _not_ have a problem?" Dean replies, but I hear the sounds of flipping through pages come to a halt.

"Esca said she's looking for her brother. Is she Rade Montgomery's younger sister?"

Sam speaks next. "Well...yeah. We didn't recognize the name." A pause, a realization. "But you do, don't you?"

I don't need to see his face to know that Bobby's gone serious again. "We did business sometimes. If he needed a rare piece of equipment or information. I wouldn't call us friends."

"And you just told her you didn't know him?" Dean asks. "Come on, this girl's got some serious issues, and you just lied to her face?"

"Don't lecture me," Bobby replies, sounding disgruntled. "I hadn't heard from him in a while. Then, three nights ago, I get this call from him. He says that he's going to try something and that if he doesn't call back in the next two days, I should go pick up his things from a motel in Mobridge. He didn't call back."

"So...what? He's dead?" Sam.

I hear the sound of Bobby shrugging. "I'm assuming so. And in his toolbox, he left a note. Just a state, a town, a place."

"The Oak Ridge Cemetery," Sam fills in, a hint of dread in his voice. "You don't think he..."

"I think he did." Bobby sucks in a deep breath. "I think the reason your little girlfriend is up and about again is because her brother traded places with her."

"Damn it," Dean hisses. His feeling is stronger than one I'd expect. "This is going to be awkward."

Numbly, I pull away from the window. The rest of their conversation fades to meaningless babble in the background. As if in a dream - make that a nightmare - I make my way back to the front of the house. No thoughts of melodramatically flinging open the door this time around. I just twist the knob and wander in.

The conversation pulls to a halt, and I feel their eyes land on me. Slowly, I look up from the floor and meet their gazes. "So," I say. "He's dead."

Bobby ducks his head. "Yes."

I sit down on the floor and put my face in my hands. _Rade is dead._

_Because of me._

* * *

><p>Yooo so basically I made a poll on my profile of who you think should end up with Esca. I know, it's kind of early, but still. Vote. I kinda already know how it's going to end, but I want to hear what you think. ;D<p> 


	8. So Apparently No One's a Death Virgin

"You talk to her."

"No, _you_ talk to her."

"But I don't know how to talk to her."

"You talk to girls all the time, Dean."

"I don't _talk_ talk to them, you idiot. What do you think I should say? 'You look great in that tear-soaked t-shirt, let's continue this over dinner'?"

The muted voices leak in through the crack between the door and the frame. I've been sitting on the bed in one of the guest rooms for a while now. After my brief meltdown in the kitchen, I had retreated into a room at random and locked the door behind me. Bobby being a hunter, and hunters being natural control freaks in at least some ways, I knew he had the key to the lock. If he'd really wanted me out, he would have yanked open the door hours ago.

The window facing the bed is orange with sunset, the sheer curtains blocking out the view. The air is a little dusty, but for what it's worth, it doesn't trigger too much of a painful memory for me. The demons never tortured me with dust. White-hot ash, maybe, but never plain old dust.

The brothers came up some ten minutes ago, whereupon they began to bicker. And have continued to do so.

Suddenly, the argument cuts off. There's a burst of motion, then Dean's wry laugh. "Sucker. Always go for paper."

Sam doesn't reply. There's a rattle at the door and Sam pokes his head in, muttering at his brother, "If I really had a pair of scissors, I could stab you with them."

"That's the spirit, Sammy," Dean says. The sound of his heavy footsteps heads back up the hall and down the stairs.

Sam's smile looks almost pained as he steps fully into the room, shutting the creaky door gently behind him. I raise an eyebrow at him in challenge. My eyes are long dry, so at best guess, I just look pissed, but I hope it's enough to discourage any serious conversation.

No such luck.

"I swear, my brother and I didn't know about Rade. If we had, we would have told you," he says. He looks awkwardly tall under the low ceiling.

I look away, staring instead at my bare feet which are crossed in front of me on the patchy quilt. Softly, I say, "He gave his life for mine. And it wasn't even a fight or flight decision. He didn't jump in front of a bullet heading in my direction. I was dead, and he hunted down a demon deliberately to trade places with me."

Abruptly, I lift my head to look at him. "Do you think you can understand what that's like?"

Sam lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, one that faded before it made it past his lips. He glances around the room briefly before making a decision and walking across the room to sit on the bed next to me. The bed sinks down, and I edge away a little. He smells of oak leaves.

He looks me earnestly in the eye, as if begging me to listen. "I know _exactly_ what that's like."

I search his face for a moment, trying to see if he's playing with me, but he seems pretty serious. I turn back to my feet, which are going numb from my position. "Because of Dean?"

"Yeah."

"Did he trade something for you?" I pick at a stray thread on the quilt with my gloved hands, feeling childish compared to Sam's unmoving quiet. "Is he going to Hell when he dies?"

There's an awkward pause in the conversation. I see his face frown out of the corner of my eye, then he clears his throat and says, "Something like that."

I look up at him sharply, but don't pry. I can tell there's a long story here, and it might not be something I want to get into, especially considering all that I'm going through already. So I sit back and shift around to face him on the bed.

"What's wrong with Revelation?" I ask, trying to get my mind off the fact that my brother is dead. I can deal with being dead myself. It's a lot harder to deal with everybody else being that way.

"That's a really long story," Sam replies, kicking off his shoes and crossing his legs on the bed so he's turned towards me. "I don't think you'd want to hear it."

"I wouldn't want to hear it, or you wouldn't want to tell it?" I challenge, feeling a tug at my lips despite my determination not to smile.

He deliberates that for a moment, then says, "The second one. So if it's all the same to you . . . ?"

"I'll step off," I say, nodding in acquiescence. The room falls prey to silence again, but I don't mind. I study Sam like I'm looking at a test contract in Harvard. He's got almost a studious air about him, where Dean has a sort of in-your-face hunt-it-down-and-kill-it attitude that pours off of him in waves. He's also attractive in a subtler way than his brother.

The moment that thought crosses my mind, I look away. I've known him for less than twenty-four hours, and despite the trust I've placed in his hands, that in no way gives me leave to think about him like that. Or Dean, for that matter, but I haven't really talked to him face to face for . . . well, pretty much the entire span of our acquaintance.

Sam speaks up as I fidget. "So . . . what are you going to do now?"

The question catches me off guard. I honestly haven't given it any thought since the new situation presented itself. I shrug a little and tug at another loose thread on the blanket. It's practically falling apart as it is. "I don't know. I could go back to Steele and Montgomery, but - "

"Wait, you seriously were training to become a lawyer?" he asks, sounding half-impressed. At my nod, he asks, "What kind?"

"Corporate or civil law. The first year of law school is more of a placement year than anything else, so I hadn't really put anything on paper yet," I answer, unconsciously slipping into my law-school diction. "I was good at it, too. Top ten of my class that year."

"And you just . . . stopped?" he continues. "When you had so much going for you?"

Echoing his reply from earlier, I give him a humorless smile. "Something like that."

He notices, and gives a little motion with his hand, like he's saying _touché_. "It's what happened to me, is all."

I frown. "What?"

"I was at Stanford. I didn't actually get to the whole law school part yet, but I was going to. Then I just . . . stopped," he finishes, giving me a slight smile as he paraphrases himself.

"Do you regret it?" I ask. "Not sticking around, I mean."

Instead of giving me a simple yes or no answer, he actually thinks about it for a long second. Then he slowly shakes his head. "There's no going back for me now. And . . . I can't imagine my life being any other way. This is who I am - a hunter, not a lawyer."

"You could be both," I say. _My dad did it._

He shakes his head, making his long brown hair flop around. "I don't think so. Besides, if I did that, my brother would probably be dead within the first twenty four hours."

"Yeah, about that," I say, the words sparking another inkling of curiosity in me. "Who's the older one, you or him?"

"He is. He turned thirty this year," Sam replies. "I'm twenty-six."

It makes sense, now that he says it. I remember the diminutive nickname Dean uses for Sam - _Sammy_. I bet if I tried to use that nickname on him, he would give me the same look I give people who call me Jessica.

"Is he a worse hunter than you?" I question. I don't know where the interest comes from, but just from being with them for such a short period of time, they've intrigued me. They're not like other hunters I've met, who are always visibly on their guard and hostile to anyone new. They seem way more open - and yet, at times, so much more closed off. Both of them are hiding things - big things.

Sam laughs. "No, he's better. He just doesn't care."

"I don't care about what?"

At the sound of Dean's low voice, both our heads whip up to look at the door. Somehow, Dean had made it back up the steps soundlessly and walked up to the door without either of us noticing. He's got a half-smile that I don't believe written on his face.

Sam's smile falls a little. He settles his jaw and says, "Nothing. We were just talking about - "

"About me."

The dead air between us grows thick. Dean keeps up the smile just to bother us, I think. After he decides he's let us stew in the awkwardness for long enough, he taps his fist against the door frame and starts into motion. "Bobby wants to see Esca downstairs. He's got something for her."

"Sure," I say, sliding off the bed and making a conscious effort not to wobble on my numb feet. I remember how whenever my brother caught me with feet that were just starting to wake up, he would poke them with his just to make the sensation even more uncomfortable. I don't think Sam would do that, but I don't doubt Dean's childishness in this instance.

I straighten my shirt and follow Dean out into the hallway. Sam trails a few steps behind us, probably not wanting to be too close to Dean right now. _And the intrigue grows_, I think to myself. My feet are slowly waking up, and my soles are starting to prickle.

Bobby meets us at the bottom of the steps. If it's possible, he looks more gruff than he did when I first arrived here. I guess these kinds of situations where he's the bearer of bad news don't usually make him that comfortable.

"Esca," he says, "your brother left me something for you."

"I was actually assuming that all of his belongings would be mine," I say bluntly, unintentionally coming off slightly passive aggressive.

Bobby doesn't seem to care. "I meant he left something to give to you directly. It's a note."

"Oh. Okay."

He walks over to the kitchen table, where his old weapons bag is sitting. A crossbow and a set of throwing knives sit beside it, like Bobby had dug them out to find the piece of paper he now offers to me.

The note is crumpled and a corner is stained with a dark liquid that I'm pretty sure is blood. My brother had always liked the thought of leaving trails of notes - he was the king of treasure hunts. I guess he couldn't help leaving a little paper trail for me. I don't know if he meant it to be comforting, but it is. Like he's still here, almost.

But he's not, is he? I know exactly where he is, and it hurts more than I can process to know that he willingly put himself there. How am I worth more than he is? How did my life become worth more than his, when he had made a bigger difference in the world than I had, when he had been older, and wiser, and stronger?

I force myself to shut the thoughts down. The others are still waiting for me to read the note, expressions of mixed anticipation and uncertainty on their faces. Slowly, I unfold the paper in my hands, eyes drawing to the few short lines of black ink in my brother's all-caps handwriting.

_Esca._

_I'm dead. I don't know if you knew that already, but I am. I'm where you were. You know, Hell. I'm almost excited._

_Okay, that's a lie. I'm really not. But I don't know what to say here, all right, Esca? I know, I know we promised this would never happen, but . . . you're worth more than me. You don't know it yet, but you really are. And so I'm giving you my life. Don't waste it, all right?_

_Go to the drop spot of the last job we worked. All your stuff is there, and some of my stuff too. And maybe an explanation._

_I love you. And I hope you don't hate me for what I had to do._

_- Rade_

I don't realize I'm crying until a tear slips from the tip of my nose and splashes on the paper. Luckily, it doesn't hit any of the writing, but I still swipe hastily at my eyes to make sure it doesn't happen again. Treating the crinkling paper with the utmost care, I refold it and put it in the pocket of my jeans.

"So?" Dean asks from where he stands by the wall. "What did it say?"

"Dean," Sam says, a faint plaintive tone in his voice. "It's private."

"She doesn't have to tell me," he shoots back, but I feel his eyes on me, not wavering.

I suck in a shaky breath to calm my nerves and say, "It's just a goodbye. And he told me where the rest of my stuff is. Now . . . all I have to do is remember where the drop spot from our last case was."

"When did you work the case?" Dean asks.

I grimace. The memory is far away, and it got lost among the mountains of horrible memories I have now, but when I first died, that case had given me nightmares - or whatever it is one calls the hallucinations one gets in between waves of torture in Hell. It was the case that killed me. The one where I was ripped to shred by a coven of vampires.

The memory is years ago now, though I suppose in real-time it's only five months old. I cast my mind back trying to recall it.

The specific location eludes me. I frown and look at Dean. "Technically, we worked it five months ago. But after being dead - "

"I thought you said you didn't remember anything about being dead," he interrupts, breaking apart my shaky logic before I can utter it.

I grit my teeth and say, "Well, it's still fuzzy. But I know the town." I turn to Bobby. "I appreciate all your help with my brother. I'm going to go collect his things and get going."

I move towards the door, but I don't even make it halfway before Sam interjects, "Whoa, whoa - are we just going to let you go alone?"

"I don't know. Are you?" I ask, not turning back. My eyes fix on a rip in the screen window of the front door. "I can take care of myself, you know."

"Yeah, you keep saying that," Dean says. I hear his hard footsteps approach me. "But since you've been alive, you've already been attacked by a demon, hurt both your hands, and found out your brother's dead, which doesn't exactly leave one in a very rational state of mind."

"Oh, yeah, and you're the king of rationality," I snap, turning around to look at him. He's made it fairly close to me. Close enough that if I wanted to get closer, it would become real awkward, real fast.

He snorts a laugh, fixing me with a wry look. "That's Sammy's job over there. I'm the king of having my brother die, though, and I know how that can make a person feel."

The admission of information makes me blink, and I look around Dean to stare at Sam, who sucks in a deep breath and looks at the floor. He's been dead before?

"I don't remember anything either," he mutters, before I can ask the question that's on the tip of my tongue. Which means he didn't go to Hell, which means the millisecond-brief flash of hope that flickered across my mind has disappeared.

My gaze returns to Dean. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that maybe someone should go along with you." At my incredulous look, he rolls his eyes. "Hey, I'm not volunteering for the position, but if I have to take it, I will."

"And me," Sam adds, as if there was even a question of whether or not he would go along with his brother.

"I'm sure you guys have better things to do. Like actual cases," I say, rather surprised by their reactions. Then I realize what Dean said and add, "That demon was asking about you, by the way. It was totally not my fault."

Dean frowns. "You never told me that."

"I told Sam," I say. The moment the words pass my lips, I realize I shouldn't have said anything.

Dean opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again and pivots on his heel to face his brother. I can hear the stern look in his voice. "That demon was after us?"

Sam squirms a little under his brother's harsh examination. "Esca had already gotten rid of it."

"So now the demons know we're working with Esca?"

"I don't see what that really matters, Dean - "

"It _matters_ because you didn't tell me, Sam," Dean growls. "I'm not broken. You can tell me things. Just because I was - Just because of what happened, it doesn't mean I can't handle it."

Sam takes an angry step forward. "It wasn't important, Dean. And _you're _the one who's been on edge ever since we picked up Esca. We've had this argument a million times, and it seems like half of those times were in the past day. So would you cut it out already?"

Dean glares at him for a second, then takes a step back and nearly walks into me. "Whatever. I'm going to get the car ready." He turns around and his chest hits my shoulder. I slide out of the way, and he wordlessly continues out the door. There's a long pause, then, I hear the sounds of distant swearing.

Sam lets out the breath that he'd been holding and turns to Bobby. "Do you think you could keep looking into this whole psychometric thing for us?"

Bobby, who had been watching the exchange in silent disapproval, nods. He glances over at me, then says, "You might not like what I turn up."

"Esca can handle it," he replies.

When Bobby looks at me in askance, I just shrug. We'll see how much I can handle when we get there. The response must satisfy him at least a little, because he nods again and says, "You be careful."

"We will be," I answer, smiling a little.

Sam walks over to me and jerks his head at the door. "Let's get moving. Dean's going to be impatient."

"Maybe you should stop bringing up whatever it is you keep bringing up," I suggest, following him to the door. "Because that seems to be the main source of your problems."

Sam looks down at me and gives me an empty smile. "That's not going to happen."

"Why not?"

"Because he's my brother, and I care, even if he doesn't."

I frown a little. "How can you be so sure he doesn't, though? He seems to care a lot about that car of his, I mean."

A humorless laugh. "The Impala won't keep him here."

"And you know this because . . . ?"

"Because it didn't work last time."

And with that, he walks off, leaving me open-mouthed behind him.

* * *

><p>Ooh, so now Esca knows that both of the Winchesters have died before. ;D Also, I've gotten four votes on my poll and Dean seems to be winning! Thanks to everyone who voted. XD<p>

Am I moving to fast? Too much drama? Too little? Or am I doing all right? Let me know in the reviews!


	9. A Billion Secrets, and Half of Them Mine

I race after Sam, who, in the time it has taken me to process this new piece of information, has almost made it to the Impala. Dean is nowhere to be seen, but Motorhead is playing at top volume in the cab. I can hear the harsh chords from here.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demand, trying to get in front of him to stop his forward progress. His legs are too long to allow that to happen.

From the look on his face, he's already regretting the outburst. "Nothing. It means nothing. And we're not going to talk about it."

"Are you saying that Dean died before too?"

"I'm not saying anything, Esca." He glances around the lot quickly, making sure Dean isn't around. "I shouldn't have said anything in the first place."

"Yeah, well, you did. No take-backs," I return, my attempt at levity falling flat on its face. "Is that why you took me with you? Do you think I can help him get over being dead? Because, news flash, I'm still trying to get over it myself - "

"Being dead wasn't the problem," Sam interrupts, voice hardening. "And we're done talking about it."

I gape at him for a moment, but by the time I draw my thoughts together to make another argument, the sound of Dean's footsteps is approaching us from the other side of the car. Soon, his head appears over the roof of the car. He gives us a cheeky smile, like he hadn't just stormed out of Bobby's place five minutes ago.

"You guys ready to go?" he asks, shutting something in the back seat. Through the window, I can see it's one of my brother's weapon stashes. Noticing me looking at it, he says, "He had a nice mace in there."

"They're still my things," I reply. Looking at him, I wouldn't be able to tell he had been dead - nor while looking at Sam, for that matter. Questions form at my lips, but I glance sidelong at Sam, who gives me a stern regard and gestures to the car. So, instead of launching into a deposition, I just add, "You're right about the mace, though. It's Norwegian."

Dean shrugs. "I'll have to look into it." By the tone in his voice, he's clearly trying to pretend that what had happened back in the house hadn't actually happened. He taps the roof and pulls open the driver's side door, sliding in while releasing the classic rock into the air. When he slams the door behind him, I turn to Sam.

He puts up a hand before I can start talking. "I'm not talking about him. If he tells you about it, then it's a different story, but he already doesn't trust me right now, and if he found out I told you, it would only make it worse."

"Why? You're just trying to help," I tell him. Then I see his expression change. It dawns on me. "It's more than that, isn't it? He didn't just die. Something happened while he was gone."

Sam scuffs his heel in the dirt and looks up at the sky. The stars are beginning to come out. "We're not going to talk about it."

"There seem to be a lot of things you two won't talk about. Should I be nervous to be going with you?" I ask. The question isn't an honest fear, but an accusation. Just like my father always taught me to, I'm taking the offensive, because once someone gets you on your defense, then it's almost impossible to transition back. Better just start off on the right foot.

"No - no, you shouldn't. Please, just get in the car, Esca," Sam says, not meeting my eyes. I stare at him, not sure whether I should do as he says. Finally, I let out a heavy breath and pull open the car door.

Appearing relieved, Sam pulls open his own. Before he can get in, I reach out and stop him with a hand on his arm. He looks down at me, and I draw myself up to my full height and say, quietly enough that Dean won't hear over the blasting music, "This conversation isn't over, Sam."

He pulls back and gets in the car, not giving me a response. But I don't really need one. Whether he's on board or not, I'm not going to drop this.

I slide into the back seat and shut the door behind me. Dean meets my eyes through the rear view mirror and raises his eyebrows at me. "Took you long enough," he remarks.

"Well, it's not like you were going to leave without me. You don't even know where we're going," I reply, strapping myself down.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Minor details."

Sam clears his throat. "But, just to be clear, where _are_ we going?"

"Darnettsburg, Iowa," I say. "It's a small town. It might not be that easy to find on a map."

Dean tosses me a look over his shoulder that clearly says _don't underestimate me_. He reaches over to a box at Sam's feet and rummages around for a few seconds before pulling out a map.

"Iowa," he states, showing me the map before turning back to face the front of the car and unfolding it in his lap. It takes him over a minute to locate the pinprick of a town. When he does, he lets out a triumphant laugh and says, "You gotta try harder than that, Esca."

"It wasn't a challenge," I tell him.

Sam peers over the back of his seat and mouths, "It's always a challenge."

Dean nods in agreement, sticking his keys in the ignition and giving them a turn. The engine revs underneath the blasting Motorhead, and he pulls onto the one lane road off of Bobby's property. The boys start into a light-hearted conversation about how when we stop to fill up the gas tank, we should get some dinner for the road.

It's like the argument never happened.

Looking from one to the other, I sit back in my seat and turn to face the window. I might be in the same car as them, but in no way am I in the same boat. They've got their issues and I've got mine, and as soon as I find my things and Rade's explanation, I'm going to be on my way.

_Yeah_, says my inner voice, like the sarcastic little shit it is._ Of course it's going to be that easy._

_Not._

Two hours later, we pass the sign that welcomes us into Darnettsburg. Night has fallen around us, and this far out into the country, the stars are bright above us. On the floor of the Impala there are the discarded wrappers of a bacon cheeseburger, a Tuesday Special (whatever that is), and a regular burger with extra pickles and no ketchup. Dean is singing along to whatever cassette tape we've moved on to, very off key and loud enough to be heard over the lead singer. Sam must be used to it, because he occasionally joins in.

Then Dean's horrible singing cuts off, and he turns down the music a little. "Hey, Esca, you remember that drop spot yet?"

I draw my eyes away from the passing countryside and nod. "We left our things with the local priest."

"What? Why?" he asks, sounding incredulous.

"Because he knew why we were there. He's the one who called us in," I reply. The small town is starting to develop around us, moving from sparse farms to closer knit houses. I barely remember this place. It was so soon before I died, I guess I hadn't had the time to store it to a deeper memory yet before - before -

I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, tearing my thoughts away before I can get lost in the nightmare again. I'm getting better at it, it seems - but then again, I haven't slept since the motel, and sleep is where the demons live.

"Wow, a priest who actually accepts the existence of vampires. I haven't met one of those," Dean says. He pauses, and adds, "Then again, I don't really know any priests."

"Why am I not surprised?" I say dryly, flicking him a look through the mirror.

He narrows his eyes a little in my direction, then says, "We'll got talk to him after we find a motel. Hopefully we can get this done tonight and be back in Sioux Falls by morning."

"Sounds like a plan," I reply, locking my gloved hands together in my lap. The leather is starting to stick to my skin - not uncomfortably, either. I think I could get used to wearing them. But no; i'm going to find a way to end this psychometric business. Maybe Rade knew about it, and he knew a way to stop it. Maybe he left the answer with the rest of our things. I just cross my fingers and hope; in the twenty-four hours since I've been reanimated, my luck has been far from spectacular, and I see no reason for it to suddenly improve now.

Darnettsburg is small enough to have a main street that actually functions as a main street. Most of the shops line this street, most of them still open, since it's barely seven o'clock in the evening. Dean steers us past them and down one of the side streets upon seeing a sign for a motel.

When we pull into the parking lot, I get the flash of a memory. This was where Rade and I stayed when we were here. Then again, though I can't remember much about the rest of the town, I've got a feeling that this is the only motel in the town, so it makes sense.

Dean parks the car and turns off the rumbling engine. The music cuts off, leaving the car in silence for a moment as Dean fiddles with his keys and Sam pulls out his phone to check the time. Then, the older brother starts into motion by opening his car door. "I'll get a motel room," he says, ducking his head back through the doorway momentarily before shutting it behind him.

I look over at Sam, wondering whether I should bother asking him again. I decide not - he seems pretty fed up, and when someone's annoyed, they're even less likely to offer help. So I readjust my gloves and step out of the car.

The night is cool. I'm still wearing Sam's jacket, so most of it doesn't affect me, but I still shiver. Maybe I haven't been completely honest with myself - I know this place. I know it better than I should. But I've repressed the memory, and there's no way I'm letting it out while I'm awake. Instead, I try to forget I was ever here and move on.

At the other end of the motel, I can see Dean negotiating with the manager in the motel office. He laughs good-naturedly at something the man behind the counter says, then hands over a credit card. He's not a bad actor, really - if I didn't already know him, I wouldn't have been able to tell that the card is stolen and he doesn't laugh like that much. I don't know if I'm as good an actress.

Hunters should be. They've got to keep their secret hidden from most of the people around them, so it's almost a necessity. I haven't had nearly as much practice. I never ran credit card scams because, well, I'm rich. No need for it. My crusade was funded by anonymous withdrawals from random ATMs across the northern United States.

My brother had run them. I'd insisted he take some of my money, because while the supernatural business usually slid under the law's radar, credit cards didn't. He hadn't liked it, but I think he eventually resigned himself to it.

The motel office's door opens with the jangle of a bell, and Dean strides back across the parking lot towards us. "Seven," he calls out, gesturing with his head to the room on the end of the motel, opposite the office. When Dean gets near enough to the Impala, he reaches out and knocks on the windshield to get Sam's attention.

To me, he says, "Get back in the car. We're going to find your priest."

I frown a little at the order, but he doesn't stand around waiting for me to call him out on it. He goes back around the driver's side and gets in. I blow out an irritated breath, then copy him, sliding into the back seat. "You need to learn common etiquette."

"Same to you," Dean retorts. "I haven't forgotten about how you slashed my tires, you know."

"There were extenuating circumstances," I protest, but he doesn't listen. The engine starts up again and we drive out of the parking lot and back onto the quiet streets.

"The manager said that the church was at the other end of town," Dean said, turning back onto Main Street.

"Sounds about right," I reply, leaning forward so I'm closer to the two men. "Look, I know you're all hunter-y and masculine and all, but you should really let me handle this. He doesn't trust hunters very much."

"Why not?" Sam asked, sounding confused.

I shrug. "Apparently, when he was in a bigger church in another city, one of the priests in his parish died and became a ghost that asked churchgoers to kill sinners. The two hunters working the dead priest's case desecrated his grave to burn his bones. The priest didn't like it much."

Dean's expression shifts a little and he trades looks with his brother. Sam makes a face at him and says, "Do you think - "

"Yeah."

"Then we really should stay in the car."

I snap my fingers between them to get their attention. Dean turns back to the road, and Sam twists in his seat a little to face me. Raising my eyebrows, I ask, "Is there something I'm missing here?"

Sam shakes his head, making a noise in the base of his throat. "It's nothing. We'll just . . . stay in the car."

I sit back against the seat, letting it drop. Judging from their reactions, I have a sneaking suspicion that they had something to do with it. And, considering what the priest was doing - impersonating God and forcing innocent people to kill others - I probably would have done the same. I didn't tell the priest that, though, (unlike Rade, who had, which had led to him being kicked out of the church and the priest consulting with me alone).

Darnettsburg being a small town, the "other side of town" is only about ten minutes from where we'd started. In what feels like no time at all, Dean is pulling up to the curb of a quaint-looking, white-washed church. An old-fashioned bell hangs in the steeple, and gravestones dot the lawn around the edifice, giving the whole area a sense of being lost in time.

Then Dean ruins the illusion by flicking on some AC/DC. He braces his arm against the back of his seat and faces me. "You going or what?"

"Common etiquette," I repeat, then, pulling my Swiss Army knife out of my pocket for good luck, I push open the door and step into the street. It's quiet on the outskirts of town - not that the center of town was that loud to begin with.

I see a faint light through the front windows of the church, and walk around the Impala to the cobbled walkway up to the front doors. The flicker at the back of mind, the memories of Hell, grow stronger and stronger with each step. The year of the Hunt.

I drag myself to a halt, halfway to the church. My fists clench at my sides, reminding me that I'm here now, I'm alive. Hell is far away. The Hunt is over.

_The Hunt is never over, Esca_, Alastair's voice echoes through my head. He was the demon in charge of that year. He didn't disappoint.

From behind me, I hear Dean rolling down his window. In a voice lacking inflection, he asks, "Something wrong, Esca?"

His words are enough to break me from the horror of my past - or the threat of horror. I'm not getting lost in there. I won't let myself get lost again. Three hundred and sixty-four days of torment in Alastair's year of the Hunt - three hundred and sixty-four days to relive. I _can't_ let myself get lost again.

Licking my lips, I take in a new breath and continue forward, focusing on the doors in front of me. I climb the few short steps to reach them, then lift my hand and knock.

After waiting for almost a full minute, I knock again. There's no answer. My brow furrows, and I hesitantly lower my hand to the doorknob and turn it. The heavy wooden door swings inward, knocking against the wall loudly. The sound echoes around the high ceiling.

I step inside, my eyes scanning the two rows of pews and the candle-lit altar at the front of the church. Something doesn't feel right. Instinctively, I quiet my steps so that they're silent against the wooden floor.

"Father? Are you there?" I call out. Some of the candles gutter in their stands. Stepping closer, something seems off about them. Then I realize what it is: they've dripped down their candelabras to the floor below. Trails of cooled wax hang like stalactites from the rims of the candle basins.

No one has changed these candles in over a day.

I whip out the longest blade I have on my knife and hurry forwards. I sidestep the candles on the altar and move towards the back room behind it. When I try the door, it swings open, unlocked.

Before it's fully open, it knocks against something. I slide in through the available space and my breath rushes out of me. I feel the blood leave my face.

The door is stuck on the body of the priest. Blood pools around his head, already dark red and dry against the floorboards. His throat is ripped out. Someone killed the priest.

And I have a terrible suspicion it's because I'm alive.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for the long wait, guys...I think it's been a while, at least. Maybe I've just been busy enough to make it feel that way? I don't know. Anywaysss, here's a chapter for you. Hope you enjoyed it! And hey, maybe you can drop a review if you did.<em>

_Love ya!_


	10. Hell Breaks Loose My Suitcases

I crouch down, shoes shifting on the dusty floor, examining the priest. I wish I had better light, but those candles aren't budging from their self-made wax prisons and I don't have a flashlight with me. The Winchesters probably would, but I can handle this on my own.

The front of his neck must have been ripped right off, leaving a gaping hole and shredded skin. Giving the room a quick glance - there are two beer bottles sitting on one of the side tables, one unopened; the lack of signs of a struggle - I draw my own conclusions: he had probably known the person who attacked him.

I remember the last time I was here, he had an assistant. Maybe he's the one who did it. In fact, since it seems very unlikely that he didn't find him today, I'm almost certain of it.

For the throat to be ripped out in one go, though, without the priest having attempted to fight back . . . that's a lot of speed, and a whole lot more strength. Inhuman, undoubtedly.

That leaves a few options, and one is far more likely than the rest. Demonic possession.

I straighten and step around the priest towards the table upon which the beers sit. Just as I thought - a fine dust of sulfur has sifted down around the unopened bottle. I don't touch it; I'm going to call the police as soon as I'm out of here so that they can take care of the body, and I don't want my finger prints turning up anywhere in this place.

Then again, I'm wearing gloves. Why did I never think of wearing them before? It makes everything a lot easier.

I turn back towards the room and my eyes land on a chest against the opposite wall. That was where the priest put my things, if I remember correctly. He probably kept the key with him.

Forcing myself to stay objective, I walk back to the priest and search his pockets for the key, coming up empty. My eyes trail back up to his neck. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the dimness, I can make out a narrow bruise around his throat, like whoever had ripped out his throat had pulled off a necklace with it. With my luck, the key was strung on that necklace, which is nowhere to be seen.

I stand up again and scan the room for anything I can use to pry open the lid of the chest. In the gloom, I can't find anything. Damn it, my stuff is in there. I'm not just going to leave it here. My brother said he left an explanation for me, an explanation I desperately need.

"Shit," I mutter to myself. I glance out through the open doorway to the front doors. Sam and Dean will have a crowbar, but I don't want to involve them in this. First of all, they've done enough as it is, and second of all, I don't want them to think that I can't handle this.

_Well, do you have any better ideas?_ the voice in the back of my head asks snidely, making me grit my teeth. No, I really don't.

I step over the priest's body and stiff-leg it down to the front doors. They're harder to pull than to push, and it takes a little effort, especially with the stress that's turning my joints to jelly. Once I'm out, I hurry down the path to the idling Impala.

I bounce up and down impatiently on my toes while Dean cranks down his window. He gives me a look. "What are you, eight?"

My heels drop to the ground abruptly and I bite my tongue before I can snap back a reply. Instead, I let out a tense breath and say, "I need your help."

"I thought you said you didn't want the priest seeing us," he says, dropping a little bit of the sarcastic tone.

"I don't think that's going to be a problem."

The brothers are silent for a long moment, before Sam says, "He's dead, isn't he?"

I nod. "As a door nail. And I need to get my things out of his trunk, and the key's gone. Do you have a pry-bar, or something?"

Dean gestures for me to step away from the door, then he thrusts it open and gets out. Sam does the same of the other side of the car. Dean frowns at the church, his green eyes hard. "What killed him?"

I glance away. Clearing my throat, I say, "A . . . a demon."

"Shit, are you kidding me?" he asks me, his eyes leaving the church to focus on mine. "What is it with you and demons?"

"Hey, that last one was after you two, remember? Not my fault." I take a step forward, a subtle challenge. He doesn't budge. I try to ignore the fact that I barely come up to his shoulder, and how the familiar smell of worked leather seems to be coming from him. "Now can we finish this before someone notices and gets suspicious?"

He searches my face for a second, then looks up at his brother. "Get the bar out of the trunk. It should be next to the holy water."

Sam does at his brother says, rooting around for a second before managing to pull out the long strip of metal. I look back to Dean, who gives me a grand gesture to walk. I shoot him a glare, then start back up the path. It doesn't take long for him to catch up again, and he saunters along beside me.

"How long's he been dead?" Dean questions, a businesslike air settling over him. He pushes open the church doors and strides down the aisle, not waiting for me.

"I'd give him a day," I reply. "Still, he's starting to look like a Thriller video reject. Smell like one, too."

Dean stops in front of the altar and I come up beside him. His eyes take in the state of the candles, and I don't doubt he comes to the same conclusion I did. He reaches out to poke at one, but I grab his arm and pull his hand back before he can.

"Don't let your fingerprints show up here," I tell him, despite the dubious look he's giving me. "The cops are going to find his body eventually, and you don't want to them slapping the blame on you."

He smirks and shrugs off my hand. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I can handle whatever crack police work they throw at me."

I watch him as he steps around the candles. In spite of his words, I see him avoid the cooling wax. My lips curl up in the barest of smiles. "Sure thing, Dean."

Sam appears next to me with the crowbar, appraising the scene. He looks over at his brother, who's standing at the doorway to the back room. Dean jerks his head impatiently, motioning for us to hurry up. Sam and I quickly join up with him, then Dean pushes open the door.

It bangs against the priest's head again, harder this time since Dean did it so forcefully, and we hear a squelching noise as his head shifts. Dean sidles into the room and lets out a low whistle.

He glances over at Sam. "Throat was ripped out in one go."

"And there's sulfur over on the far table," I add. Dean steps further into the room, allowing Sam and I some space to get in too. I walk past them to the chest where my stuff should be. I look over my shoulder at Sam. "Pass the pry-bar, will you?"

He tosses it to me and I catch it one-handedly. Hooking the tip under the edge of the lid, I try to lever it open. The brothers are roaming around the crime scene, every once and a while muttering something to the other.

Finally, after slamming my foot down on my end of the crowbar, the lid pops open like the cap of a soda bottle. I hold the lid steady against the wall with one hand and look in -

Then clench my jaw and slam it shut again. The noise prompts Sam to ask, "Esca? What's up?"

"If you're looking for the other half of the throat, I just found it," I say, my voice barely above a growl. "But you know what I didn't find? My stuff."

"Why would the demon take your things?" Dean says, stepping away from where he'd been examining the priest's throat.

"To be a little shit, that's why," I reply, then slam the crowbar into the wall. "We have to track him down."

"Esca, the demon's probably long gone by now," Dean says. He wasn't startled by my outburst; still, his eyes flick to the spot where the end of the pry-bar is wedged in the wall. "So how about we just pack up and head back to the motel, and - "

I take a step back from him, clutching the pry-bar tighter. "No. I'm getting my stuff back. You guys can go if you want, but I need my stuff. I need an explanation. I don't want to be wearing gloves for the rest of my life, Dean."

"Don't you get it? It's all gone. The demon's gone, your things are gone, all of it."

I give him a once-over, then shake my head. "If the demon had let the man go, then he would have come back. I don't know if you're really a God-fearing kind of guy - "

He laughs at that for some reason, but I barrel onwards. " - but these people are, and they wouldn't have just left the priest here to rot. Especially not the man he worked closest with."

"You have too much faith in people, Esca. He ran. It's what people in his situation do."

I glare at him, then look at his brother, who's been silent during the exchange. "Sam? What do you think?"

Dean narrows his eyes, then pivots and faces his brother. "Yeah, Sam. Are we going to go on a wild goose chase or what?"

Sam looks from Dean to me, his hair almost black in the candlelight. After a few seconds, he scrunches up his nose and says, "Wild goose chase."

Dean gives him a you're-kidding-me look, then slowly turns to the door. "Then let's get moving. We wouldn't want the demon to have a twenty-four hour head start or anything."

"You're such a drama queen," I tell him, then push past him and hurry down the aisle of the church. I pause at the end of the hall, observing a sign on the wall. "We need to get our hands on a phone book. Apparently, the second priest's name was Father Ingleton."

From behind me, I hear Dean mutter an aggressive, "Wonderful," proceeded by Sam's cheerful laugh. Neither of them seem very disturbed by the dead body at their feet or the prospect of demons. It makes me wonder what else they aren't telling me, but there isn't time to ask. They breeze past me and trot down the steps to their car, trusting me to follow them.

I slide in the back seat as Dean starts the car. He meets my eyes through the rear view mirror. "So, where do you suggest we find a phone book?"

"The motel, maybe?" I say, as though it should be obvious - which it is. I know Dean just asked to needle me further.

He lets out an impassive snort and pulls away from the curb. The tight street makes him pull a three-point turn, but in no time we've turned ourselves around and are heading down the road back to the motel.

Suddenly, as Dean's turning a corner, someone steps out in front of the bumper. Letting out a string of curses, Dean slams his foot on the brake and the Impala pulls to a screeching stop. The bench seat I'm sitting on does nothing to stop me from lifting from the leather and slamming into the back of Sam's seat. The impact knocks the wind out of me, but I don't let it distract me from the more pressing matter: the person standing at the front of our car.

In the glare of the headlights, the man is illuminated in blinding light. For an odd moment, his shadow seems to morph outwards, like wings splaying against the pavement, but I blink and the illusion passes. He holds his hand up to block out the light and see into the car.

Dean squints at him for a second, then says, "Son of a bitch."

Without pausing to give an explanation, he thrusts open the car door and stalks out into the street, slamming the door behind him. I toss a glance at Sam, who just looks a little annoyed, then copy his brother. The cool night envelops me and I head over to where Dean is confronting the man.

" . . . the hell do you think you're doing, Cas?"

"What are you doing with that girl?" The man's voice is surprisingly deep, solemn, and despite the way he had just jumped in front of the car, calm. He looks around Dean to focus on me with cold blue eyes.

"Going on a _wild goose chase_ - " he says that part pointedly at me, before looking back at the Cas guy, " - to go find her suitcases."

The man narrows his eyes at me, then pushes Dean aside and strides up to me, long coat billowing out. "Jessica Rose Montgomery. Are you sure you wish to continue?"

I look from him to Dean, then back again and say, "Okay, first of all, who the hell are you? And second of all, yeah, I 'wish to continue', since the demon kinda stole my stuff and I kinda need it. Note how effectively I used sarcasm there."

He frowns ever so slightly. "My name is Castiel, and that is not advised."

"Wow, thanks, that's really going to deter me, stranger I just met on the street. Thank you for your monumental, life-shaking advice."

I turn on my heel, about to walk off, but Castiel steps forward. "Wait."

Instead of looking at him, I peek around him at Dean and ask, "What is it with this guy? And how do you know him?"

Dean's expression is something along the lines of "I don't get paid enough for this." He walks toward us, his long steps carrying him there faster than Cas. He gestures to the man. "He ate a lot of lead paint as a kid. Just . . . don't ask."

Castiel gives Dean an odd look, then says, "I'm an angel of the Lord."

I blink. "If you say so."

Dean rolls his eyes and nods at me over Castiel's shoulder. "It's a long story. Like I said, don't ask." He grabs Cas by the arm and pulls him around to face him. In a quieter voice, but no less steel, he says, "Cas, I don't know what's going on with her, or why she can read every piece of furniture's mind, but she needs an explanation, and that explanation is coming from those suitcases. We can handle whatever demon's possessing that priest."

Castiel flicks a brief glance at me, then answers, "It's not the demon I'm worried about. It's her. What she might find in those cases."

"Since when do you care what happens to people like her?" Dean demands, sounding half-incredulous and half-suspicious.

"That's none of your concern." Cas looks away from Dean to me, studying me one last time before nodding to himself. "But take her if you must."

Then I blinked, and he was gone. I flinched back reflexively, my eyes whipping back and forth to find him, but Dean just shook his head. "He's gone. Just get back in the car."

What just happened finally dawns on me and instead of moving, I still even further. "Wait - so he was actually an angel? But angels don't exist."

"Well, apparently they do," Dean replies, putting his large hand on my shoulder to push me towards the car again. "Long story, don't ask . . . any of this sounding familiar?"

Reluctantly, I get back in the Impala, the motion hurting my bruised ribs. As soon as Dean opens up the driver's side door, Sam asks, "So what did Cas want?"

"To warn us off those suitcases." Dean's voice is gruff. The car engine roars up again from where it had been idling and we start driving again. "But if it pisses him off, I'm fine with it."

"But why? We can handle demons. I can handle - "

"Sam," Dean says sharply, giving his brother a hard look. Sam looked down, expression unreadable. Dean waits a few seconds before adding, "It's not the demon he's worried about."

"Well, whatever's in those cases, I can deal with it. I'm twenty-three, not fourteen."

"Yeah, and you were dead a day ago," Sam says, leaning around in his seat to look at me. "Let's not forget that you're not necessarily in the right state of mind."

I open my mouth to retort something, but Dean beats me to it. "Being dead doesn't make you unstable, Sam. She was just not breathing for a while. Stop acting like you know what it's like when you were barely dead for a day."

For a moment, I pause to take in the irony of how we, the hunters who fight so much to stay alive, mock each other for how long we've been dead.

Sam glares at his brother, and I can see his lips move as if he wants to snap back a reply, but then his mouth tightens and he faces the front of the car again. I shoot Dean a disbelieving for his defense.

He notices me watching him. "Shut up."

"I wasn't saying anything."

"You were going to." He turns his eyes back to the road and steers us into the parking lot of the motel.

Dean sets the Impala to idle again and hands me the keys to our motel room. The plastic tag jingles against the metal. He looks me in the eye and says, "Call him. We'll go from there."

"Thanks, but this isn't my first job. I know what I'm doing," I reply, taking the keys and shutting the door behind me before Dean can get in anything else. My steps crunch against the old pavement, heading to the room on the far right. The air is damp on my skin, hinting at more rain, but that isn't what makes my hair stand on end. It's the uneasy feeling of being watched.

I make sure not to give any indication that I feel that way, but my eyes nevertheless scan my surroundings. Finding nothing suspicious, I slide the key into the keyhole and open the door into the dark motel room.

My fingers fumble for the light switch, and before the lights even turn on, I've whipped out my Swiss Army knife. I shouldn't have bothered. There's no one in the room.

Frowning, I flick out the blade on my knife and keep it outstretched as I make my way over to the phone. The chair beside it looks comfortable after the repeated shocks of the night, but I make myself keep to my feet, reaching down to pick up the phone book from the floor and rifling through it until I find the priest's number.

I pick up the phone and wedge it between my left ear and my shoulder so I can keep my left hand free to dial, then plug in the number. The plastic is cold against my skin.

It rings. For a moment, the room is still.

Then, the phone is picked up.

"I've been awaiting your call."

My first reaction is to scoff at the utter cliché, but the impulse quickly disappears. "Oh really? Sounds pretty boring. You've been waiting, what, a day?"

"Thirty-four hours, if we're being precise." The voice on the other end is cool, sophisticated. Definitely not the kind of voice you'd expect to hear out of a backwoods priest. "But who's counting?"

"Who are you?" I demand.

"A friend."

I grit my teeth together. "Sorry, I'm not friends with many demons."

"Really? But we had so much fun in Hell." The voice takes on a pout. "Don't you remember? I was one of the good years. The year of the Dark."

My heart stops and I struggle to get in a breath. His voice triggers the memories, and they don't hestitate to flow in like a toxic wave. The year of the Dark. The year I was stuck in a hole, or a box, or a ball, soundproof to everything and pitch black. The year I was stuck with me and my thoughts, day in and day out. The first year I truly, deeply broke.

"You still there, Esca?" the voice asks - the demon. Iazakel.

"Definitely," I grind out. "Why would I hang up now? It's just getting interesting."

"See, that's what I liked about you. Always ready for more. It's not like you had a choice, of course, but - "

"Spit it out."

There's a pause, and when Iazakel speaks again, there's a tone of malicious content in his voice. "I was wondering if you'd noticed that your suitcases were missing."

"I did catch that, yeah," I answer. "Do you happen to know where they are?"

"Don't be coy, Esca. It doesn't suit you. You know I've got them. And I know you want them. So how's about you come and get them? It would be ever so nice to see you again."

My eyes fix onto the floor, my fists clenching. The gloves pinch tightly around my knuckles. "That's what I was thinking. If you'd just give me your address - "

"Seven thirty-eight North Richmond street." He lets out a laugh. "I hope to see you soon."

And the line goes dead.

* * *

><p><em>So, basically, I don't think I should have introduced Cas yet. I mean, did he make you curious? What makes Esca special, and all?<em>

_idk, guys. Let me know what you think. Also...how's my description of Hell? I'm not sure if I've asked this before. Just...does it sound hellish?_

_And how am I doing for character development? I'd really appreciate your feedback. :D_

_ , MK_


	11. Barbecue Me Some Demon

I slam the car door behind me with enough force to rattle all the windows in the car. "Let's go gank this mother."

The brothers look at me through the rear view mirror, both looking a little confused. Dean scowls. "That's my line."

"So the demon's still possessing him?" Sam asks, ignoring his brother's outburst and meeting my eyes.

I nod. "He's at seven thirty-eight North Richmond Street. And you guys need to bring your A-game, because this sucker's powerful."

Dean pulls out of the parking lot like I told him to, but it doesn't stop him from inquiring, "How do you know?"

My lips twitch as I stifle the memories. To busy my hands, I buckle up my seat belt and re-tie my ponytail. "We're . . . old friends."

Dean's face transforms into a grimace. Something about the expression sets my nerves on edge, stirring other memories, ones stuffed even deeper in my psyche. "Why can't these sons of bitches just stay in Hell where they belong? The Apocalypse hasn't started yet."

The words take a while to settle in my brain, but when they do, I open my mouth to speak and lean forward, sticking my head between the two front seats. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Sam glances down at me, then exchanges a meaningful look with his older brother, and says, "You probably died before the worst of it started up."

"The worst of what?" A sensation of dread percolates in my stomach. "Please tell me Dean was just using the Apocalypse with . . . with comic irony, or something."

Sam's lips press into a thin line as he stares out the windshield, but he slowly shakes his head. "Unfortunately for the world, no. Over the course of the past year, Lilith - Lucifer's right hand demon - has been breaking through the seals that hold Lucifer in Hell. And Lucifer's going to bring the Apocalypse."

The dread solidifies. I remember hearing whispers about this in Hell - whispers about Lilith helping bring about the Apocalypse. I heard that the once the seals were broken, it wouldn't just be Hell down below - it would be Hell on earth. I look quickly from Sam to Dean. Sam didn't go to Hell, so he wouldn't know what it was like. He wouldn't understand the instant, mind-numbing, paralyzing fear that's starting to spread through my limbs. And Dean . . . I have no idea where Dean went, and despite all of his assertions otherwise, he seems to be one of the better nominees to get sent heavenwards.

Swallowing tightly to remove the frozen lump of terror that has lodged itself in my throat, I ask in an almost-steady voice, "Why is it happening now? Are the planets aligned, or something? Or . . . you know, could it have been stopped?"

Dean's entire body tenses, and he slams his foot on the brakes, pulling the car to a screeching halt. The seat belt wrapped around my waist is the only reason I manage to stay in the back seat. I glare over at him. "What was that for?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek, and he doesn't look at me as he replies with bitten off words, "We're here."

"Jesus, don't you know how to brake like a normal person?" I retaliate, tightening my grip around my Swiss Army knife and practically kicking open the door. I slam the door on Dean's string of curses.

I look over at the house that, for all unfortunate purposes, is our destination. As much as I dislike the idea of it, I know it's likely the priest Iazakel is inhabiting won't last the night. The house fits someone of his stature, too: there's a quaint white-picket fence around the property, and the cottage-like abode is covered in vines which, I'm sure, would be bursting with blooms in summer. The rosebushes sit, dry and skeletal, in their beds.

Dean steps out beside me, shooting me a death glare. "Maybe you should stop being so naive. Of course we couldn't stop the Apocalypse. We're only human, Esca."

I cross my arms over my chest, wishing he wasn't so touchy about the whole thing. Somehow, the way he says "We're only human," feels ambiguous. "You're taking this too personally, Dean."

"Would you quit it? The demon's going to hear us if you keep this up," Sam orders us over the hood of the car. He fixes us both with a stern look, then goes around the back of the car and picks up two sawed-off shotguns, one of which he tosses to Dean.

I shake my head. "He already knows we're here."

He looks at me with a deadpan expression on his face, then gestures Dean and I forward with the end of his gun. "Then let's go. Wouldn't want to keep him waiting."

Dean and I approach the house together, Sam taking up the rear. We're halfway up the pathway before I realize I didn't get a gun, but instead of complaining - which Sam might be expecting - I just flip out the long blade on my knife and stay silent. The night is quiet, the residential area around us settling down for the night.

Dean glances at me sidelong and mutters, "As soon as this whole thing is over, feel free to get gone."

"Thanks for your permission. I was really sweating it," I retort.

Sam hits us both in the side with the barrel of his gun. We climb the three steps to the porch, and just as Dean's about to turn the handle, the door swings inwards into a brightly lit entrance hallway. There's no one waiting for us, but we all know the demon is in there somewhere.

"If that's not a warm welcome, I don't know what is," Dean says with a cheerful air, his expression instantly shifting from brooding to jaunty. I don't judge him for it - my features take on a similar expression.

'Together, we walk into the house. My knife stays out, and Dean's finger rests on the trigger of his gun. I can hear Sam behind me checking his ammo.

The hall stretches on into the house, and ends up in the living room. Our footsteps creak against the old floorboards. The walls of the room are papered in what looks like stylized crosses, and the furniture is all the same pattern of brown and orange plaid. For the priest's sake, I hope he was colorblind.

In the center of the room, sitting on the couch and sipping a cup of Earl Grey, sits the priest. He looks over at us, a pleasant smile on his face. Unlike most demons I've encountered, his eyes are blood-red, and they mask emotion just as well as the black.

"Esca. You've brought some friends along with you," he says. Like the voice on the phone, his words are tinged with a British accent, like he'd just hopped across the pond for a spot of tea before murdering the head priest and stealing my things. And speaking of, I can see my suitcases lodged behind the sofa, a mere ten feet away.

His red eyes take in the men on either side of me, then narrow in on Dean. He sets down his teacup on the saucer placed at the edge of the coffee table and says, "Is that Dean Winchester? My goodness, it's been a long time."

I shoot Dean a look, whose shoulders are tense but whose face hides everything. "Sorry. I'm terrible with faces. You are . . . ?"

"Iazakel, of course," the demon enthuses, remaining seated. "I supervised you when Alastair was busy with other things."

"Uh huh." Dean looks over my head at his brother, and they have a wordless exchange that I can't break into. When he turns back to Iazakel, he's wearing a grin. "Well, I don't know if you got the memo, but Alastair's dead."

"Oh, I know. Your little brother here killed him." The demon's gaze shifted to Sam at that, and his lips curled up at the corners. "By the way, it is _so_ nice to meet you, Samuel. I've heard a lot about you in Hell."

I hear him shrug. "What can I say, I'm a demon-magnet."

Iazakel's face straightens. "You are at that. Just like Esca here. Isn't that right, Esca dearest?"

My jaw clenches as he addresses me. My grip tightens on the knife in my hand. "Yeah, I never really figured that out."

Iazakel pouts, the expression ridiculous on the slightly overweight, weaselly looking priest. "No, you haven't. And that's precisely why I can't just hand over your belongings to you. They would lead you in quite a terrible direction."

"Terrible for you."

The pout turns into a frown. "Not just for me, dear, but for you as well. I care about you, Esca. You were so much fun."

My thoughts flash back to the man who'd appeared in front of the car an hour ago - Castiel, the angel, warning me off retrieving my things. Since I was still grappling with the acknowledgment of the existence of angels, I hadn't really had the time to think about it much. But maybe Iazakel is telling the truth.

Well, how about that. A demon telling the truth.

I pull my lips back from my teeth in a mockery of a grin. "Well, you know me. I never care about myself as much as everybody else seems to."

"That's too bad, Esca, darling," he says, getting to his feet and brushing his hands off on the priests jeans. His posture is ramrod straight. "Because I simply cannot let you get your suitcases back."

"Screw you," Dean says, speaking up for the first time in almost two minutes. He lifts his gun and shoots a shell of rock salt into the demon's chest.

The priest's shirt shreds and blood begins to drip from the wound. Iazakel looks down at the whole with a mixture of irritation and boredom, then motions with his hand to toss away Dean's gun. It clatters against the wall and lands on the floor. Dean dives for it, but before he can reach it, Iazakel flicks his hand again and forces Dean against the wall, arms and legs splayed.

Sam cocks his gun, but Iazakel holds up a finger. "Ah ah ah, Sam. Do you really think that's the right course of action here?"

Sam narrows his eyes, then shrugs. "Yeah, I guess you're right." Suddenly, he lets go of the gun and lifts his hand, palm facing Iazakel. "Thanks for reminding me."

I look up at Sam. His face is screwed up in concentration, and when I look over at Iazakel, his face has a similar expression, though less intense. After a few seconds of - I have absolutely no idea what Sam is doing - Iazakel's face clears and Sam lets out a heavy breath.

In Sam's moment of weakness, Iazakel tosses him against the wall next to his brother. Then, I'm left standing alone in front of the demon.

He focuses his red eyes on me, his expression turning sorrowful. "Esca, dearest, you could still walk away. You don't have to die again. You know you'll only end up with me again."

I grit my teeth. I wonder if the boys are putting two and two together while they're being pressed into the wall and are figuring out where I spent my last five months. I guess it won't really matter if I don't survive the night.

I take a step backwards, and my foot knocks against Sam's gun. In a flash, I whirl down and pick it up, then aim it at Iazakel's head. My eyes flick over to where my suitcases lie, then return to the demon. "You really think I care where I end up? My brother's down there."

Iazakel makes a tsking noise. "Don't think you can fool me. I know that you don't want to go to Hell again. I can see it in your eyes. You're afraid, and you want to live."

Dean lets out a breathless laugh behind me. "I knew it was Hell."

I whip my head around to stare at him. "Are you serious? That's what you're thinking about right now?"

Dean gives me a look. "What else am I supposed to be thinking about?"

I'm interrupted before I can shoot back a reply by Iazakel knocking the gun out of my hand. My glove catches in the trigger and is yanked off with it, and the air is suddenly cool against my skin. It feels weird to be gloveless after a day spent wearing it.

I spin around to face Iazakel again, my pocketknife brandished with my left hand. I can't use my right hand now. I do _not_ want to see the traumatic memories of my Swiss Army knife, especially not right now.

Iazakel beckons me forward. "Darling, just walk away."

I shake my head. His mouth twisting, he reaches for me, but I grab his wrist and wrench it around. I feel his bones break, but that doesn't seem to be what bothers him. Instead, his eyes fix to my hand, widening.

Confused, I look down, then gape as the skin under my fingers blisters and blackens. The smell of charred flesh fills the air. My stomach turns, and Iazakel uses the opportunity to backhand me across the room. I land sprawled next to the gun.

I look over my shoulder at Iazakel, who's arm is shaking. Around his wrist is a circle of barbecued skin in the shape of my hand print. Frantically, I look down at my hand, but my skin is unharmed. Shaken, I scrabble for the glove and tug it on, encasing my fingers in leather again.

Iazakel snarls, his face contorting as he sees me fumbling for the gun. I don't waste another second in moral deliberation - the priest's body is already gone. I've got to finish him. I grab for the gun, looking at Dean. "You know what you should have been thinking about? How I kind of need your help if I'm ever going to manage _this._"

And I shoot a shell of rock salt straight into Iazakel's face.

The demon lets out a shout. I don't look, kind of because I want to win the staring contest Dean and I have wordlessly entered into, but mostly because I've never seen someone's face blown off by a batch of rock salt and I don't think I want to see it now, either.

With Iazakel's attention fractured, Sam and Dean tumble off the wall. Sam strides past me, hand outstretched again, and this time, what he was trying to do before works. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see his face redden as black demon smoke spews from various newly-made orifices in the priest's face.

Then, the smoke dissipates and the bleeding corpse of the priest thuds to the floor. I stare at the body for a long moment, feeling, as always, the pang of regret that accompanies the murder of an innocent person. If there was a safer way around it, I would adopt it in an instant, but there isn't. Not yet.

I breathe in a ragged breath in time with Sam, and the three of us trade looks before I edge around the body to the couch. With steady hands - as much as my mind is troubled by all this, my body has been used to the horrors of my line of work for a long time - I drag out the two suitcases from behind the sofa. I'm not even going to _think_ about what was happening with my hand and Iazakel's arm.

I check the clasps, but it's already as I thought - they're unbroken. I guess Iazakel never thought I'd make it this far. For a moment, I run my fingers over their familiar surfaces. They're old suitcases, and their dark surfaces are showing wear after being dragged around the continental US for a year. I itch to open them . . . but I pause with my fingertips on the latches.

After I stay frozen like that for almost half a minute, Sam steps up behind me. The floor creaks as he shifts his weight forward and crouches next to me. "Esca, is something wrong?" he asks softly.

I bite my lip, then lift my fingers from the clasps. "Nothing's wrong. I just . . . I just don't think I'm going to open them right now."

Dean scoffs at that. I look up at him, standing across the room. He fixes me with an unreadable look. "Don't listen to the demon. He's just trying to get in your head. Don't let him."

"It's not that - "

"Yes it is," he interrupts, folding his arms over his chest. "I know demons. It's what they do. The worst thing you could find in there is some of your brother's porn magazines."

I scowl. "Oh yeah? Then what was Cas talking about? He warned me about these too."

Another scoffing sound. "Cas always worries. He's an angel."

"Dean," Sam warns, "maybe we _should_ be careful."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Not you too. Come on, instead of worrying about nothing, maybe we should talk about the elephant in the room."

His gaze aims pointedly at my hand. Sam sucks in a deep breath, like he was hoping to avoid that. Since he was the one who, I'm supposing, somehow managed to exorcise Iazakel with his bare hands, he probably doesn't want to address the fact that there's more than just his freakyness going on.

When Sam says nothing, Dean sighs exasperatedly and steps forward. "What was that, Esca?"

I look at the floor, a ringing in my ears. "I don't know."

"Are you hurt?" The question is clinical, not really concerned.

I shake my head wordlessly.

Another silence stretches on before Dean says, "Well, I guess that's something."

"Dean, let's not do this right now," Sam put in, grabbing my suitcases from the floor and standing up. "I don't know about Esca, but I'm beat."

Normally, I would have challenged Sam for stepping up in my defense - I'm twenty-three, and I can take care of myself - but as the realization sets in that I somehow burned Iazakel's wrist to a crisp, I'm rather glad he's taken over for me. I don't know if I can focus on anything in particular right now.

Dean's eyes switch from Sam to me, then he glances at his hands and nods. "I'll go start the car."

Without waiting for Sam's reply, he walks out of the house, his heavy steps retreating into the night.

Slowly, I blink after him. Knowing I can't sit on the floor forever, I belatedly get to my feet, staggering and almost falling over when I straighten up. Sam reaches out to steady me, but I duck backwards, avoiding his hand.

I swallow and look at his face, whose expression is a combination of sympathy and regret. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Esca, you've touched me before and I didn't get burned," he says.

I shake my head. "I'm not going to take that chance."

He stares at me for a moment, then gives me a curt nod. "Okay. Let's just head back to the motel and get some sleep."

He gestures for me to go first, and I oblige, walking alone down the hallway and out the front door. Sam follows tightly behind me. Dean is leaning against the side of the car, waiting for us.

When I reach the car, Dean says nothing; he just rounds the car and gets in the driver's seat. I climb into the back seat, and Sam slides in my suitcases beside me, then shuts the door. He gets in the passenger side next to his brother.

The two of them look at each other, then come to a silent agreement. Dean revs the engine. By the time we get back to the motel, I've fallen asleep. Thirty-six hours awake was enough already for someone just risen from the dead, and that plus the shock made it almost impossible not to.

If only I hadn't.

Because in all the confusion, I forgot why I couldn't go to sleep.

That's where the memories lie.


	12. Maybe I'm From X-Men, and Other Theories

There are certain things that I am afraid of.

Understandably, things like "pissed off ghosts" and "demons out for blood" are on the list. I don't think any hunter would admit it, and neither would I, if push came to shove, but we all are. We kill them to kill the fear - and I've heard that killing demons is possible, just like everything else on this earth.

Fears are good. Fears keep us alive, keep us going. Fear of failure, fear of death, fear of anonymity - those were my main vices before I went to Hell. And they connected to pretty much every aspect of my life. I didn't want to fail my father, or my write-off brother, or my courses. I didn't want to die during an exorcism, or a fight with a vampire, or a stint with a demon. And I didn't want to be forgotten.

But then I died and went to Hell. Basically, I had gotten all three of my fears in one big blow. And once I faced them, I was open to find all the other fears I had never even contemplated before.

For example, when I used to lie awake at night and worry over needless things, I never worried about what would happen if I was dumped into an airtight container until I slowly passed out from lack of oxygen. I never worried about the effects of acid on bare flesh. And I never worried about the Man.

The Man was a special torture. In fact, he was so special - or maybe _I_ was so special - that his torture didn't last a year. It lasted two. Even in a string of fifty years of torment, two years with him was enough to stick with me for the rest of the horrors.

He was at the beginning of my sojourn in Hell. Not the first year, but maybe in the first ten. He was one of Alastair's favorites, and Alastair was one of everyone's favorites, so he was allowed to do what he wanted with the damned.

I remember the very first day, as fresh in my mind as the moment it happened. It was a long, dark room - or so I thought, because there was a cavernous feel to the place and above was only a pit of darkness. I was strapped to a cold metal table, naked as the day I was born, goosebumps rising all over my body.

There were lights set up all around me, blinding me from the passages to either side of me, trapping me in a brilliant, icy world. My hands were locked into manacles, which were in turn locked to the table. Metal and lock and chains everywhere, and not a shred of warmth.

I remember thinking, _Are they just going to freeze me to death?_

What a laugh.

From the bottom corner of my vision, Alastair approached me. He was dressed up with a face more appropriate for an insurance salesman, but I knew it was him. It was one of the unpleasant truths about this world: the demons never leave, and eventually they become familiar.

"Esca. I've got a treat for you," he said, his words clipped. He gave my body a cursory glance, completely objective. "Though who's to say you won't be a treat to my Year."

"Well, I usually am," I replied through chattering teeth. The cynicism never left me, not for all the years of torture. If anything, they concentrated it, boiling off the veneer.

There was the cackle of demonic laughter - something that actually sounded like what movies made it out to be, for once - before the clatter of heavy chains reached my ears. Someone grunted from beyond the lights.

Alastair looked past the bulbs to see whoever it was who had just arrived. "You look terrible."

"Just tell me what to do." The voice was guttural, barely audible. The clink of chains continued as their owner neared my table.

Alastair shook his head, a gleeful smile trickling onto his face. "No no no. That wouldn't be fun at all. Just take your time. Press until it hurts."

"And then?"

"Don't stop pressing." Alastair gave him a winning smile, then turned back to me. My heart was thundering in my chest. "Well, that seems to be it. I leave you in the very skilled hands of my man here. Do try to stay conscious. It makes it so much more fun to watch."

Giving me a final nod, he stepped back into the blackness and disappeared. For a long moment, the only sounds were my shaky inhalations and the far-off cries of the lost souls in the Pit. Then, the chains dragged closer, and a dark silhouette filled the space the demon left behind. Between the lights, I couldn't make out his features.

Little did I know it, but that would become my little game through the two years of torment with the Man. See if I could make out a trace of who he was, or who he'd been, beneath the mask of darkness the demons cloaked his face in.

The man stepped forward, and I could feel his eyes on me. Those, briefly, I could see. A flash of green, and then nothing but a black mist. My heart leaped into my throat, and I looked away. My gaze travelled down his muscular body, only visible to me from the ribs up, to his hands, which were big, and his wrists, which were bloodied and torn and locked into a set of heavy cuffs.

Those cuffs clattered against something off to the side, and came back with something: a pocket knife. The hands deftly flipped it open, and for a moment, the Man stared at them, as though he was contemplating it and couldn't figure out for the life of him what it meant to him.

He muttered something. I couldn't figure it out at the time, and it was only in the memory of it that the words became clear. "I'm sorry."

Then he raised the knife above his head and buried it into my stomach.

He killed me early that day. In fact, it took him a week to learn his limits, learn how to slow down. And even after that, it was months before he figured out how to leave me alive at the end of the day. Every night - or what I assumed was night, as it was always the same - my body regenerated, between one blink and the next. After the first day, my body always changed. Sometimes I came back as a woman, or a man, or black, or asian, or young, or old. I was never me again for the two years I lay on that table, up to my ears in my own blood, screaming myself hoarse, watching my body get slowly cut away to bone.

Over time, I compiled a list of the features I'd seen, twisted into expressions of concentration and disgust and, eventually, enjoyment. His mouth: almost-straight teeth, which bared into a grin that made me want to scream. His eyes: a pair of hard, green disks. Sometimes I'd even catch glimpses of other parts, but the ones I managed to see almost daily were those two.

He learned new tricks. He found new ways to hurt. I don't think he knew he was cutting up the same person, day after day. I think he just cut and burned and beat and destroyed, and that was all he knew anymore.

I can describe it factually, scientifically, objectively. I can pretend that it doesn't disturb me, and that I don't feel every cut like it's still new in my skin, but the reality is, those were probably the worst years of Hell - scratch that, the worst years of my life.

And now I'm dreaming about them.

And there are no words.

I wake up screaming, clawing at my collar so that I can breathe, because I'm remembering the one time where the Man let me bleed to much and I drowned in my own hot iron life. I can still feel it clogging my throat, filling my lungs, coating what skin I have left -

I press my hands to my face, my fingers clutching at my hair. My cheeks are wet, but not with blood - with tears. They're still leaking out of the corners of my eyes. My legs kick back the blanket that traps them, nearly falling off the couch. Why did I ask to take the couch? It's harder than the bed. It's hard as metal. Just like the air's as cold as metal.

I'm back on that table. I never got off. _I am never free_.

Suddenly, there's someone tugging at my wrists, and daylight seeps in. My eyes flick down to the hands clutching my arms and feel a terrible wrench of recognition. They're his hands. I know it. The Man.

"You can't take me back!" I shriek, pulling my hands away, but his grip is iron. I can't look at him. I bury my face into my forearm. "Go away, go away!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Esca. It's just me. It's Dean." The voice . . . the voice isn't deep enough, not broken enough. It's not a growl. It really is Dean.

Slowly, I lower my arms and look at him. He's closer than he's ever been to me, even when he stopped my freak-out last night. He smells of motel shampoo, and his hair sticks up in wet spikes, but his eyes are steady.

Green.

I flinch away again, knocking my back against the arm of the couch. "You look . . ."

He raises his eyebrows at me. "I look like what?"

He looks serious, that's what. As though for once, he's not treating me like a piece of baggage he'd rather chuck out the window, but like someone who genuinely needs help. And the panic subsides a little.

I'm being crazy. The Man is back in Hell, stuck there for all eternity, cutting up the rest of the souls in the Pit. Cuffs clanging, teeth grinning.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I pull my wrists from Dean's hands gently, sliding around so that I'm sitting on the couch instead of lying on it. He takes the seat right next to me, his leg knocking against mine.

"Care to tell me what your nightmare was about?" he asks. His tone is noncommital, but I hear the curiosity in it despite himself. His hands twist in his lap, the long cuffs of his navy blue jacket hiding his palms. It helps a little for me to focus on it. The rest of the room is a blur to me: just a jumble of robin's egg blue walls, honeyed wood, and cheap furniture.

Another heavy breath, and I can speak again. "No. Not really."

"Hell?"

An empty laugh wracks my chest. My own hands ball into fists on my thighs. "Well. You know the truth now. But I guess you always knew, didn't you?"

He shifts beside me, and his shoulder arm brushes against my shoulder. Unlike his hair, his jacket smells of hard spices and motor oil. It's an alluring scent, and I barely catch myself before I breath it in deeper.

"Call it a hunter's hunch," he replies. We don't look at each other. If I did, I think I might break again. His eyes - I could have sworn for a moment that his eyes. . . .

To distract myself from the lost thoughts, I stand up, brushing my tangled hair out of my face. My gloves feel too tight, and in a fit of pique, I tug them off and toss them onto the coffee table.

Dean gets up after me, and I can feel his uncertain gaze on the nape of my neck. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"I won't touch anything," I say curtly, splaying my fingers. The motion is slightly uncomfortable, and it keeps me in the present. In the light of day - it's probably around eight in the morning right now - the memories of Hell are at least a bit farther away. "Especially not after what happened with Iazakel."

It's Dean's turn to laugh. Unlike me, he actually seems amused by the situation. "Yeah, that was an interesting show. You planning on heading back to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters any time soon?"

Despite my best efforts, a smile tugs at my lips. "Did you just reference X-Men?"

"They were good movies," he shoots back defensively, but I can see his reflection in the television screen and he's got a tentative grin on his face.

I decide to take mercy on him and change the topic. "Where's Sam?"

"Out getting breakfast. I hope you like waffles." Dean, sensing that the scene no longer requires him to be standing so close, walks around the yellowed coffee table and heads to sit at one of the rickety looking chairs sitting around the room's circular wooden table.

I shrug, glad that he isn't pressing. It seems odd, almost out of character for him, but maybe he knows more than he's letting on. I have a feeling he does that a lot; plays the cocky, high school dropout bit for all it's worth and let's everyone believe it's who he really is.

"I could eat anything right now," I reply, walking over and taking another chair for myself. It creaks a little, but it's real and solid beneath me, versus the cold and insubstantial dream world I've just escaped.

Just then, there's a shuffling at the door and the knob turns to allow Sam into the room. He kicks the door shut behind him and pulls up short seeing Dean and I sitting at the table together. He narrows his eyes at us. "You guys aren't yelling at each other."

"Good eye," Dean says, jerking his head for Sam to place the big brown bag he's carrying on the table.

Sam cautiously sets the bag on the table, glancing from me to his brother like we're about to explode. "Did I miss something?"

I don't say anything. Across the table from me, Dean opens his mouth to speak, and I get a pang of nerves before he says, "Nah. We talked about X-Men a bit, if that counts."

I relax back into my chair a bit. For whatever reason, Dean is going to stay quiet about the nightmare. Or, if I stay with the brothers much longer, _nightmares_. Because I know this is only the beginning. The worst years first, and then all the rest, over and over.

I'm resilient. I know I'll eventually move on, or at least, the nightmares will lessen and hopefully stop. It's what happens in the interim that bothers me.

The crinkling of the paper bag brings me back to center. If I keep drifting off like this, they're going to start wondering where I'm going.

Sam digs out a Styrofoam takeout container and sets it in front of me, then takes out two more. He then proceeds to dump out the rest of the contents of the bag on the surface of the table: three forks and three knives, a wad of napkins, six cups of butter and a small tub of syrup. Then he crumples up the bag and tosses it over his shoulder, before grabbing a seat in the remaining chair.

The boys start into their breakfast - Dean was right about the waffles - but I'm somewhat more hesitant than they are. I was lying earlier when I said I could eat anything. At the moment, my stomach is already full of butterflies.

Still, I force myself to crack open the container to the sight of a short stack of waffles. They're rather limp, but the syrup might be able to salvage it. I look over top of the lid to see that the boys have divvied up the rations on their own, leaving me with two butters and a set of knife and fork.

I wait for Dean to finish with the bottle before taking the syrup for myself. I read the label wistfully, then pour some out onto my sad looking breakfast.

"What was that for?" Sam asks, startling me.

I look up at him, feeling like a deer caught in the head lights. "What was what?"

"You just sighed."

I hadn't even noticed. I raise my shoulders. "Sorry. I guess . . . I guess I was just thinking about home."

Dean frowns a little. "Did you have a lot of crappy waffles at home?"

I shake my head, spreading butter on my breakfast. I don't know if I should continue, or if they'll even want to listen. The topic is safe enough, though, so I start talking. "We didn't eat waffles much at all, but my brother would make pancakes sometimes. And . . . well, New York isn't _that_ close to the border, but it's near enough that if you look hard enough, you can get maple syrup."

"Isn't that what we're eating?" Sam asks, knocking the bottle with his knuckle.

A genuine laugh escapes my lips. "Not even close. This is some corn syrup substitute. No; the real deal, the Canadian stuff, it tastes like butterscotch. My dad would always bring it home as a surprise and we'd eat it over vanilla ice cream. Eventually, we kind of just . . . stopped."

The smile slides from my face. I remember why we stopped - Rade had left home. He'd told my father that he was being a coward, and that he should have been hunting like he used to. I suppose the memory of him had been too uncomfortable for my father, because he never brought home maple syrup again.

Just as the silence between us falls dangerously close to the realm of awkward, Sam's cell phone goes off. He sets down his fork and roots around in his pockets until he unearths it and flips it open. "Bobby?"

From the other end of the line, there's a tinny rush of words, before Sam cuts him off and says, "Hold on, I'll put you on speaker. Dean and Esca are here too."

He presses a button on his phone and sets it on the table between the clump of napkins and the syrup. "You're on."

"Sam, I don't think I should be saying this out loud," Bobby says, sounding stiff at the sudden realization that the three of us are focused on him. "I mean, I don't know if Esca should hear this."

I instantly sit up straighter, though I know Bobby can't see it. "I'm fine, Bobby. You wouldn't believe what a party you missed last night."

"I know, I know; Dean told me. The demon Iazakel. He's written about in various ancient texts; he guards the damned souls and supervises their punishment. Congratulations on meeting one of the bigwigs, but that's not why I'm calling." He pauses and there's an audible intake of breath on the end of the line as he prepares himself. "It's about your abilities."

My throat closes up, and I swallow so that I can get out, "Well, speaking of, we discovered a little something new about it."

There's a frown in his voice when he asks, "What do you mean, found something new?"

I open my lips to speak, but the words don't come out. Dean glances over at me, then leans forward and says, "She burns people now, Bobby."

"What?" His tone is incredulous.

"Last night, her glove came off and she grabbed Iazakel's arm. When she let go, there was a lovely bit of barebecue in the shape of Esca's hand." He shoots me a look, then turns back to the phone and says, "She won't touch anything now."

"I wasn't touching anything already," I put in, carefully setting down my fork and knife to rub my bare palms together. I guess I should be glad nothing worth imprinting ever happened to them before I realized I hadn't put my gloves back on. I set my clasped hands in my lap and add, "I just don't want to hurt anyone."

"Well that's going to be interesting, considering what I pulled up about people with psychometric abilities." There's another one of his long pauses as he collects his thoughts. "Long story short, there are a few accounts in my books about people like you. All of them burned out before they hit thirty, but before that, they were high achievers, even for the times. Royal architects, successful earls, stuff like that."

I feel the sting of tears behind my eyes, but I blink once, hard, and school my face into an expression of composed interest. "Well, I've got a few years to worry about that. Is that all?"

"I wish." There's the sound of rustling paper before he says, "I was right about the demon intervention. But it's a little different than I thought. See . . . psychometrics are created at infancy, the moment they draw their first breath. Mostly because, when they're born, they don't have any breath for themselves, and the mothers beg the demons help the child."

"Are you saying - "

"Yes, Esca. You were a stillborn. But that's . . . that's not all of it." There's a long sigh, and he flips a page. "Your mother died when you were ten, didn't she?"

I'm about to ask what that has to do with anything when suddenly, it hits me, and I feel as though the air has been knocked right out of me. "No. She didn't make a deal. Not like that."

Bobby is gruff when he replies. "All parents plead for their children's lives. It's only when the child is born under a full moon that the sentiments have any meaning. Luckily for you, or unluckily for your mother, you were. And the demons - specifically, the servants of the Mistress - came to your mother and saved you using demon magic, which is a difficult and wild thing. That probably explains why none of the psychometrics live that long; the power eats them up from the inside. It's more than just some demon blood in you. It's demon magic."

"Who's the Mistress?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady. I can't begin to contemplate what this means, not yet.

"The books don't say that. I'll keep looking, but . . . Esca, I think you and the boys should come back. Stick around for a bit, at least until we find something."

I nod numbly, forgetting that he can't see it. Dean eyes me momentarily before saying, "Sure thing, Bobby. We'll finish up here and head your way."

"Good." It sounds like he's about to hang up, but then he adds, "And you'd all better watch out for each other. Iazakel coming after you . . . That's a bad sign. It means the demons know Esca's back, and they want her."

The call ends with a fuzz of static.

Slowly, Sam grabs his phone and tucks it back in his pocket. The table is silent.

After a long moment, Dean sits up straight again and draws in a breath like he's about to say something. I bet he's only trying to help, maybe even comfort me if the way he's looking at me - with a mixture of sympathy and pity - is anything to judge by, but I don't need it. I don't need his pity, or his sympathy, or even his heart-to-heart.

I jerk up from the table, the chair hitting the ground with a bang. The boys don't seem startled. Maybe I'm getting predictable.

I don't care. I'm twenty-three years old, and I can deal with this myself.

I just need a walk.

Wordlessly, I hurry to the door and go outside. The day is too bright, too cheerful. It's all wrong - isn't it supposed to thunder? Aren't the gods supposed to curse the very ground I walk on? I might as well be half-demon.

My hands clench and unclench, nails digging into my palms and cracking the scabs on both of them. Well, the demons want me back, do they?

This fight just took on a whole new level.


	13. Don't Bet On Me

It takes me a good half hour to compose myself enough to keep a neutral expression. I don't see what I really need one for, since the boys saw how I reacted, but I just know I can't look weak. Both my brother and my father drilled that into my head.

My walk takes me down main street and back again. The normalcy of the people around me is the best cure for my lack thereof. For the first time since I came back, I finally think of home. The streets of New York.

My father taught me to hunt. He always said he didn't want me to become a hunter, but as a daughter of one, the monsters might just come to me, so I might as well be prepared. He claimed that New York, and various other big cities, were always big supernatural centers - which I suppose makes sense. Some hunters would dedicate their lives to just hunting around one city. In metropolises as big as NYC, with millions of inhabitants, the number of traumatized ghosts and various other creatures was bound to skyrocket.

But he said it's also the small towns, the ones where odd things happened and no one bats an eye, that prove problematic. Sometimes, they're worse than the big cities, because at least in the city there's bound to be another hunter ready to take up the trail, and maybe, if you're lucky, avenge whatever terrible misfortune that befell you that made you drop the great chase.

I haven't seen the streets of New York in over a year, and the fact that I'm seeing pieces of it in the smallest, hokiest town in the middle of nowhere means that I'm definitely homesick. Not necessarily to the place, but to the memory of happiness.

When my father died and left me with the command to take up hunting like my brother, I'd been angry. Unimaginably angry, because he had spent my entire life telling me he wanted me to stay safe, live a normal life, and then he went and told me to throw it all away - Harvard, my apartment, my _future_ - to follow my reckless, GED brother. The Montgomeries aren't known for being the most functional family on the planet.

Now, I'd give anything to be sitting around our old kitchen table with a bowl of ice cream and maple syrup again.

I step into the street to head back to the motel, and suddenly, a police car whips around the corner and speeds by me, sirens blazing. Another is quick to follow, disturbing the calm townspeople, who look after the two cars in astonishment. I frown a little too, wondering what could possibly have them in such a state -

Then I remember. They're heading out down main street toward the church. I grit my teeth. "Shit."

It seems my brief (and not nearly sufficient) interlude in solace has been cut off short. Someone must have found the body of the priest. After Dean having asked where we could find him last night, I'm pretty sure we'll be first on the suspect lists once the police start investigating.

I break into a run and make it back to the motel in record time. Pulling to an abrupt halt in front of our red motel room door, I pull the sleeve of my windbreaker up and around my right hand so I can use the doorknob, then push in the door.

The brothers have split up to either sides of the room; Dean's pretending not to watch some soap opera on the staticky television set, his long legs kicked up on the wooden coffee table where my gloves are still sitting, and Sam is furrowing his brow at his laptop while seated on the bed, his broad shoulders curving inwards as he focuses intently on his screen. The moment I burst in, they look up, startled.

"They found the priest," I say before either of them can get a word in. I don't want them to ask any questions, because I don't want to give out any answers. That might be in part because I'm not sure if I'll know the answers myself. Ever since I got back from Hell, I've been doubting myself more and more. Maybe it's because of the hands, or my brother's death, or maybe it's just because Hell straight up messed with me, but I don't like being wrong, and answering questions without being sure of the answer is a fifty-fifty stab at it.

Dean flicks off the TV and rises off the couch. The bottoms of his jeans brush against the dark leather of his boots. In a wry tone, he asks, "Which one?"

"Since we were actually at both scenes, I really don't think it matters," I reply, equally deadpan. "So who's up for a fast getaway?"

Sam and Dean exchange doubtful looks before Dean shrugs and walks over to grab his leather jacket off the back of one of the chairs. "I guess I'll start the car. You guys can . . . pack up."

The pause in his sentence bothers me, but he's out the door before I can say a word. Slowly, I look at Sam, who must have taken the same sentence for an entirely different meaning, because he's quietly setting away his laptop with a frown on his face.

"That meant something, didn't it," I say, a mounting irritation with the brothers turning my stomach. "What is it with you two and pushing things off on each other?"

"It's what my family does about everything," Sam answers, sliding to the edge of the bed and into his heavy black boots. He tosses me a dubious look before bending over to tie them up. His longish brown hair flops down in front of his face, hiding his expression.

I watch him for an awkward moment before heading deeper into the motel room to retrieve my leather gloves from the coffee table. "Well, it's annoying."

Sam laughs a little, though it's not a laugh of amusement. "Tell me about it."

I hold the gloves in my hands, feeling the soft, pliable material between my fingers. I wonder what would happen if I killed a monster or a ghost with them - would they capture that memory and become painful to wear too? Maybe I'll have to stock up on gloves for he rest of my life. They'll sit around my sparse, plain apartment in Cambridge just in case I ever do anything interesting ever again and end up ruining another pair.

Feeling another wave of helplessness coming on, I clear my throat and pull on the gloves. "So what did Dean want you to say?"

"I'm not sure he wanted me to say anything. He probably just wanted me to watch you." Sam stood up, his head awfully close to the ceiling. He pulled his duffle bag out from under his bed and set it on the comforter so he could tuck his laptop away. "He thinks you're going to go into shock. He actually tried to make a bet about how long it would take you to."

My face hardens, but since my back is turned to him, he can't see. Of course Dean would do that kind of thing, the asshole. "Really? How much?"

"Fifty," Sam says, and I hear the sound of his duffel hitting his back as he slings it over his shoulder. Somehow, he and I seem to end up in this situation a lot: Dean outside, us stuck together inside. "I told him he was being stupid."

I turn to him and raise an eyebrow at his guileless face. "How much did you bet?"

He gives me a small half-smile. "Twenty-five. Much more reasonable."

I step forward a little. A caustic bit of rage is simmering in my chest. "Can I get in on the pool? Because I'd like to bet fifty on me never going into shock."

Sam's mouth dips a little and he opens it to speak, but I barrel on as though I never stopped. "You guys think I'm way more fragile than I really am. I'm twenty-three, and I grew up with an ex-hunter for a father and a working hunter for a brother. Not to mention the fact that I hunted for a while myself, and I was in Hell for five months. I can handle whatever happens."

Sam's expression turns apologetic, and he nods a little. His hand shifts on the strap of his bag. "We're not saying you can't. You've just been through a lot, that's all."

"And you haven't?" The anger is hot against my ribs. "I heard what Iazakel said, you know. He knew you and your brother without you guys even having to introduce yourselves. 'I've heard a lot about you in Hell, Sam'? What was that all about? And not to mention what he said about Dean, which I'm still not going to think about, because I've clearly got my own shit to work through. We've all lived through a lot, but I don't see Dean kissing you on the forehead like a three-year-old who fell down and scraped his knee."

"That's because I'm his brother, and he hasn't trusted me for a while." Sam says it plainly, but I can hear the tinge of bitterness that adds a bite to his words. "He gives a crap about what happens to you."

"Well, he's got a fucked-up way of showing it," I retort, then I move away from him to grab my suitcases. From behind me, I can hear him let out an exasperated sigh, but I don't care. He brought it on himself, and Dean too. I am _not _a child, dammit.

Just then, the front door bangs open, the handle slamming against the light blue wall. Dean's face is impassive, the sharp line of his jaw even rougher from his stubble. "I don't do chick flick moments."

"I'm not asking for one," I say, not even surprised that he heard. Or listened in - to be honest, I wouldn't put it past him. Besides, at least this way I won't have to repeat myself. If I haven't made my sentiments clear yet, I don't know what else there is for me to do.

"Then stop whining. We need to get on the road." He turns away from me and looks at his brother. "And you're terrible at this heart-to-heart stuff."

Before Sam could snap back a retort, Dean pivoted on his heel and disappeared outside again. Sam glared after him, a muscle jumping in his job. I shoot him a sidelong look, feeling a pang of pity despite my previous anger. I was in his situation in the months before I died. No, scratch that - I was in his situation for my entire life. Rade had treated me like the clueless heroine of every comic book he'd ever read, and not like the hunter I knew I was.

"Look, if he doesn't trust you, then make him trust you," I say, then hoist my bags into the air and follow Dean out into the cool morning.

The man in question is waiting by his car, resting on the divot between the cab and the trunk. When I near him, he reaches out to take my bags from me, but I clutch them closer and shake my head. "These are going in the back seat with me."

"What, you're going to spend the six hours it takes to get back to Bobby's by picking through your old things? Weren't you afraid of looking in there?" His tone is wry, taunting. He doesn't remind me of Rade, as much as Sam reminds me of myself - Rade had been more open, and yet, less caring than Dean appears to be.

"I wasn't afraid," I say, levelling a stern look in his direction. "And maybe I will."

"Whatever you say, Esca," he says, then pops open the back door for me to get in. With a harshness that I couldn't aim at him, I shove my bags into the cab. I can't believe I've only been with him for a day and a half. I don't know how much longer I'll last without slapping him in the face.

I climb in after my belongings, the beat-down old leather rubbing against my gloves. I've barely righted myself so that I'm facing the front of the car before Dean bends over and gives me one of his devilish grins. "But hey, if you find anything interesting, be sure to tell the rest of us."

I sneer at him and grab the door handle. He barely manages to pull his head out before the door slams back into its frame, shutting out the ambient noise and trapping me with my own silence. The sudden quiet is a relief, and I sink back into the old bench seat.

Through my somewhat dusty window, I see Sam finally leave the motel, carrying two duffel bags over his shoulder. His face has a pensive air, though from what I've seen of him over the past day or so, I can tell that he's the more studious of the brothers, so maybe it's not a surprise. Still, I hope it's because he's honestly considering what I had to say. I see a lot of my own brother issues mirrored in him, and I know that it can be hard living with someone like Dean or Rade.

That's why, I suppose, underneath all the grief and loneliness my conscious has constructed for Rade's death, I'm secretly kind of relieved. I don't have to constantly prove myself to him. Then again, I guess I've only just traded it off for the need to prove myself to the Winchesters. Still . . . there's more freedom in this. I can still walk aw ay and not worry about putting them in more danger than they're already in. Hunters live longest in pairs, after all.

Sam glances at the car, meeting my eyes through the dirty glass. Minutely, he shakes his head. He grabs at his brother's sleeve to tug him further away from the Impala and turns so I can't see their lips move as they converse in short, rapid bursts of speech.

Dean's shoulders tighten up, and he starts shaking his head. Slowly, so that the car won't creak beneath me, I shift over and press my ear against the window. If I strain my hearing and try not to breathe very loudly, I can almost catch what they're saying. I swear I hear my name pass both of their lips, but apart from that, I'm just getting a whole bunch of jack squat.

While as a hunter I realize that trusting people, especially people who've brought you nothing but trouble, is generally a bad idea, it still ticks me off that neither of them deem me fit to tell me just exactly how much they distrust me. They just have their late night arguments and meaningful looks and they never say anything to me.

I slide back from the window and scowl. It's just like Rade and my dad, only they had more yelling and less deep looks. For years I thought my father hated him, hated that he'd chosen the life of hunting over the life my father had worked for. I had always thought that I'd been the good daughter, graduating top of my class a year early, finishing my undergrad in business with flying colors before finally getting accepted into Harvard, my father's alma mater.

Then, as he literally lay dying in the hospital bed, feeling his heart give out, he decided to drop his bombshell. _You should start hunting, Esca._

_But Dad, I thought you wanted me to take over the law firm. Steele and Montgomery is your life. _I'd sat there beside him, feeling my stomach plummet to the soles of my feet as I processed what he was saying.

He coughed then, and the heart monitor stuttered before regulating again. He took my hands in his, skin cold compared to mine. _Some things are more important than that, Esca.__  
><em>

With every passing second, my heart pounded louder and louder in my ears. I had dedicated my whole life to bettering myself than my brother. An income-less, high school graduate who drove around in the car from _Angel_. He wanted me to be more like that. _But Dad, I always thought - _

_Esca, I know it's your life, and it's your decision. But I think . . . I think you would be better off -_

_Better off what, Dad? Being a hunter? Living in constant danger? _I'd forced myself to my feet, arms stiff at my sides. I yanked my hands away from his, but the damage had been done; my hands were icy, and the cold was seeping up my limbs and into my heart.

His lips had paled, clearly having seen that his words weren't having the desired effect on me. _Esca, I can't explain it to you. I just - _

_"I just wish you were more like your brother." Is that what you want to say, Dad? _I didn't wait for him to answer. I didn't even give him a second look. I just turned on my heel and marched from the hospital room.

The next time I saw him, he was in a coffin, and he would never be explaining anything to me ever again. I remember that I didn't even feel all that sorry at first. In fact, for a few days, I was happy that he was gone. He didn't have any other ways to ruin my life if he was dead.

I couldn't understand - couldn't deal with his ultimatum. All my life, a waste? "You've got to take over the family business for me, Esca," or, "You need to keep your grades up, Esca," or, my personal favorite, "I hope you never have to become a hunter like me, Esca."

The sound of the front doors creaking open snaps me abruptly out of my past, and I realize that my entire body is rigid with tension. I suck in a heavy breath of the dry air and hold it in my lungs for a few seconds before letting it out in a steady stream out my nose, hoping it will calm me again. I haven't thought back to that scene in a while - certainly not while I was in Hell, which felt like fifty years in itself, but for almost a full twelve months before that, too.

"Hey, Esca," Sam says, his voice loud in contrast to my previous silence. "You okay?"

Dean starts the car, but that doesn't stop him from glancing at me through the rear view mirror. He raises an eyebrow in my direction. I look pointedly away from him and meet Sam's earnest hazel eyes. "I wish people wouldn't keep asking me that. Especially when we've clearly got bigger problems."

"Bigger problems? What's a bigger problem than a girl who's already got us on the hit list for a major demon within the first thirty-six hours of knowing her?" Dean demands of me, shifting the car into drive and pulling out onto the road.

I finally meet his green gaze and shrug. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe the police that I can hear heading closer and closer with every sarcastic quip we toss back and forth."

Dean's brow furrows, and the car suddenly jolts forward down the street, leaving the motel behind us. I turn in the back seat to watch as, from a few blocks away, the two police cars from earlier veer around the corner and speed down the street. After a few seconds, my suspicions on their destinations are proved correct; they race into the motel's parking lot, completely oblivious to the fact that they've only just missed the culprits they think they're looking for.

I turn back to Dean and put on a fake smile just to needle him. "Yeah, I'd speed up if I were you."

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for the wait, guys! [cue angry mob as I receive the award for understatement of the year]<em>

_Yes, I know that was a long time. I just kinda lost the story for a bit, which is why this chapter is kinda mostly basically (yeah, really_ just)_ filler. I _do_ have a plot. It's just a little...muddled for the time being._

_Still, I would love it if you could review this, if you're still reading it. I hope it's not too disappointing._

_~MK_


	14. Now That's Dysfunction

Despite previous assertions that I was going to go through my belongings on the long drive back to Bobby's, I actually don't touch them for the entire ride. I distract myself easily enough with a slew of complaints about Dean's cassette collection, which he readily rebuffs, and with the rehashing of some of our older disputes. He's still angry with me about slashing his tires.

Sam joins in every once in a while, but he seems a bit lost in his own thoughts. I wonder what he's thinking about, and at the same time, I'm worried he's thinking about me. What if he comes to the conclusion that I've become too much of a hassle? He was the only one petitioning for me to stay before. Dean would be happy to see me gone.

As much as I'd hate to admit it now after all I've said, with Rade dead and every other hunter I used to know thinking I'm dead too, I don't really have anyone to help me anymore. Before I found out about the whole burning people's skin thing, I thought I could handle the whole "demon abilities" spiel. Yeah, it had screwed with me a little - I didn't actively fight against demons, but I wasn't stupid; I knew messing with them was idiotic, and making deals with them was downright suicidal.

But then I had clamped my fingers around Iazakel's arm and smelled the skin charring beneath my hand, and things changed. Not to mention what Sam had managed to do, which, come to think of it, I haven't asked him about, and I really should.

Now I've come to the uncomfortable conclusion that I need their help to fix this mess, because as much as I'd love to be able to solve this all myself, I'm in over my head.

But I don't say that. In fact, I don't mention demons at all. The conversation remains blissfully inconsequential, and neither of the boys seem eager to change that. As hunters who've clearly got a lot of not-so-great memories, conversations like these probably come around once in a blue moon, and even though the questions I need to ask Sam chafe at the back of my throat, I don't mind letting the rapport persist.

We stop for lunch along the way, Dean ordering what appears to be his fast food of choice - a double bacon cheeseburger - and Sam ordering a garden salad. They buy me a panini of sorts, but I don't touch it. It's only once the food is in front of me that I realize how much the repressed reaction to Sam's and my abilities has affected me; my stomach is filled with butterflies, and not in a good way. As Dean starts driving again, I smother the impulse to lean forward and talk to Sam. Since Dean hasn't made any odd remarks about his abilities, I'm sure he already knew about them, but I remember his face as Sam exorcised Iazakel. He wasn't happy about it. I doubt he'd want to be a part of the conversation now. I resolve to ask him at Bobby's.

The final hour-long stretch to the car lot passes faster than I would have thought possible. For a good part of the ride, Dean attempts to explain to me why classic rock is the only good music out there after I let slip that I'm much more of a Radiohead fan myself. He keeps dragging Sam into it by making him pull out cassettes from a cardboard box in the front seat, using him as a Vanna for his list of prized albums. Motorhead comes up frequently, as well as AC/DC.

This type of conversation is unfamiliar to me. Rade always disapproved of music, especially rock. If I ever caught him listening to anything, it was classical - something one probably wouldn't expect from looking at him. Where the passenger seat compartment in the Impala was filled with cassettes from the mullet rock era, in the GTX, there was a small selection of baroque and romantic.

He keeps it up right until we're bumping down the gravel road to Bobby's. He clearly takes his music seriously, just like his car. It makes me think back to what Sam said, about all of it not being enough to keep him here when he'd died.

There's still so much I don't know about these two, and I can hear Rade's voice in the back of my head, demanding, "Trusting two strangers with your life? Do you have a death wish?"

If I had to give him an answer, I'd probably say yes just to piss him off, but I really don't. For some ridiculous reason, I trust these hunters, despite only having known them for, like, two days at this point. They've saved my life once already. That tends to have an endearing effect on people.

It's mid-afternoon when we pull to a stop in front of Bobby's house. A knot of apprehension coils in my stomach knowing that there's going to be bad news through that front door, no matter how prepared I am to take it. Did Rade know about my . . . kind's tendency to burn out before thirty? If he had, I wonder why he gave up his life so I could live just a few years more.

My eyes flick over to the suitcases piled beside me. If he had, he would have written it down in his hunter's journal, which, with any luck, he left with me. But, on the off chance he didn't, I want to prolong the uncomfortable realization as long as possible.

"You coming or not?" Dean's deep voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn to my door to see that he has pulled it open and is currently standing there waiting for me.

I shake away the rising worry and place a deadpan look on my face. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I holding you up?"

He steps aside to let me slide out, resting his forearms on the roof of the Impala. My knees feel shaky after spending half of the day in the car, but I take a few strides to walk it off and the sensation disappears.

"No, not at all. I love waiting on your beck and call, Your Highness," he returns, equally sarcastic. He slams the door with a little more force than is strictly necessary. I glance at him over my shoulder and he gives me a saccharine smile.

"Two minutes, guys. That's all I'm asking," Sam says, coming around the car with my suitcases. I must have missed the sound of the other door shutting. He shifts one of the cases to his other hand so he can brush the hair out of his face. His expression is vaguely accusatory. "Two minutes alone without getting into an argument."

"We weren't arguing," I say, glancing sidelong at his brother. "We were . . . role playing."

Dean gave me a disbelieving look. "Is that honestly the best you could come up with? That's kinky."

"Oh yeah? And what were you going to say? That we were playfully discussing the Queen of England?" The instant the suggestion passes my lips, I realize that was probably a better explanation, so before he can get a word in edgewise, I snap, "Don't answer that."

Sam rolls his eyes and hoists the suitcases higher. I hear him mutter, "Immature," under his breath.

Dean must hear it too, because he gives Sam a hard slap on the back, making him stumble under the weight of the suitcases. "_Such_ a gentleman, Sammy."

Sam shoots his brother a look, then shakes his head and starts off towards the house. When he's gotten far enough out of Dean's reach, he shouts, "Thanks for proving my point."

"You're welcome, Captain Obvious," Dean calls back, and a genuine smile flickers across his features before it hardens to the confident, blank mask he usually uses. I suppose in that respect we're fairly alike - it's where most hunters draw their similarities. Emotions, or visible ones at least, are a sign that you're not prepared for the work.

I stretch my arms over my head, then follow Sam up the steps to the door. He's trying to get a hold on the doorknob, and failing miserably, so I slide around him and tug it open for him. Briefly, I wonder what memories this handle would show me if I were to pull off my gloves. But I don't risk it. Aside from the potential horror story, I don't want a headache from the hammering pain that accompanies it.

He grunts a thank you as he sidles in. I hear Dean's feet on the creaky wood of the steps behind me, but I hop inside and let the door slam shut before he can reach it. Insult Radiohead, will he? We'll just see about that.

The air inside Bobby's is less musty than I remember, but that might just be because I spent the last six hours in a forty-year-old car with two grown men. In fact, the air smells almost pleasant, with a mixture of rosemary, thyme, pigweed and saffron. I never took Bobby for a fan of the culinary arts, but I know that first impressions aren't everything.

"Bobby?" Sam calls into the house, setting the suitcases on the floor next to the closet. Dean appears at my shoulder, the door slamming shut behind him. "You there?"

"Where else would I be, ya idgits?" he replies from somewhere deeper in the house. Sam crosses the kitchen to our right in four strides and checks out the den. Upon seeing Bobby, he beckons Dean and me forward.

I take twice as many steps as he used to reach him, once again reminding me how abnormally tall the brothers are. I purse my lips and look at Bobby. "So. Here we are. Got anything else for us?"

He directs a stern gaze at me from behind his large desk and the piles of books heaped on it. "_Why, thank you, Bobby, for doing all of this selfless research for me while I run around murdering priests. How thoughtful of you._ Oh, it's no trouble Esca. Your thanks is better than all the gold in the world."

My brow creases as I frown. "We had to stop a demon."

"Potato, potahto," Bobby says, shutting his book loudly. "Here I was, taking a break from digging through thousands-of-years-old myths, and Rufus calls me up letting me know that two priests were found dead in a hick town in Iowa and that he's going to go check it out. I told him not to bother, since Dean decided to oh-so-kindly let me know where you guys were headed off to, and, shocker, you three were already there."

"Bobby, one was already dead, and the other was about to kill us. We didn't have much of a choice," Dean says. His long legs carry him over to stand beside me.

"There's this new thing called _burying the freaking bodies_, boys." He fixes a stern glare on us, one at a time, and I instinctively duck my head. Yep, he definitely reminds me of my father. I don't know how I feel about that. Finally, he takes his a heavy sigh and says, "But what's done is done. I'll give Rufus a call to see if he's up for a little clean-up. In the meantime, I need you boys to go dig out the heavy rope from the basement."

Dean's frown is audible. "What for?"

Bobby's eyes flick over me briefly before he says, "Just do it."

I take a step backward, eyes narrowing. I take another few sniffs of the air, sorting out the ingredients in my head again. On their own, they wouldn't have meant much, but together . . . _together_. . . . "You want to do a memory spell on me."

Instead of instantly denying it, Bobby's face screws up a little, and he says, "Well, technically, it's more of a charm."

"_Potato, potahto_," I mimic, taking a step away from the only semi-apologetic man. "Why?"

"The Mistress." Bobby gives me an expectant look. "You wanted to fix this, didn't you? And the only thing that can is the thing that did it to you. The Mistress."

"I don't remember being born. It's not going to help if you strap me down or tie me up, I was technically dead, right? You can't recall something you weren't alive for."

My palms are sweating at the thought of going under a memory spell. It's not that I wouldn't love the opportunity to figure out who did this to me - I would - but I know about memory spells. And clearly, Bobby does too, if he told Dean to bring up the rope.

A rookie charmcooker looking at the ingredients probably wouldn't understand why I'm so against it. Half of the ingredients are based on memory, and the other half on calming the mind. I, on the other hand, have seen and done my fair share of white magic, know that it's only the presence of these calming herbs that allow any memory to surface at all. Because, in short, memory spells are attacks on the subconscious. The further back you go, the worse the attack gets, especially if the memory has been blocked.

I've seen people struggle so hard they've bitten their own tongues off. Nails have broken off in their own thighs. And this was for send-backs of ten, fifteen years. Nothing near to what will happen for my twenty-three.

"You'll remember the thing that gave you life, Esca," Bobby says, adopting a soothing tone. It doesn't work.

"My mother gave me life. That . . . that _thing_ just kick-started it." I wipe my palms on my jeans, trying to be subtle about it. I glance up at Sam, then over at Dean, who has paused halfway to a door which I assume leads to the basement. He licks his lips, waiting for someone's call on the situation.

I look back at Bobby, who is looking less comfortable with his decision. Before I can reprimand him further, he says, "I've modified the spell a little, Esca. It shouldn't be as bad."

"Shouldn't be as bad?" For some reason, that sets me off. I let out a sardonic huff of laughter. "Are you a witch, Bobby? No, I didn't think so. And don't you think that if it were possible to modify a spell like this, an actual witch would have done it already? I'm not going to do it. I don't care what you cooked up, and I don't care how helpful it would be. I wouldn't survive it."

In the silence that follows my outburst, Sam shifts beside me to turn his attention more fully onto his mentor. "Wait - just how dangerous is this, Bobby?"

"I've never seen anyone last past twelve years. I worked a case a while back with this kind of stuff in it," I answer, despite the question not being addressed to me. "The woman who tried to go to fifteen ended up ripping her own throat out."

Sam makes a choked noise in the back of his throat and takes a small step in front of me. I don't even think he noticed he did it, but it marks a subconscious need to protect me all the same. "And you want to send her back to her birth? Are you crazy?"

Bobby narrows his eyes at Sam, then shoots a look at Dean and lets out a disheartened sigh. "If I've got to spell it out for you boys, I guess I will. Your feathered friend dropped by earlier, said he was willing to help."

"Cas?" Dean sounds shocked and somewhat disgruntled by the announcement. His face shows a mix of emotions, ranging from confusion to irritation. "But he didn't like the idea of her riding with us in the first place."

There's the sound of beating wings, and between one blink and the next, the man who'd appeared in front of Dean's car yesterday is standing between Bobby and Dean. His expression is blank, but that seems to be his main facial setting. His blue tie is flipped backwards. "No, I didn't like the idea of her opening those cases. She'll do well to stay with you."

Dean's eyes widen in dumbfounded annoyance. "What the hell, Cas? What do the angels want with her?"

His crystal blue eyes slide over to Dean's waiting face. "As I told you earlier, that is none of your concern."

"Hell yeah, it's my concern! This girl has already got us on the hit list for a major demon, and besides which she's been spewing the life stories of inanimate objects all over the place whenever she's not wearing her gloves."

Though his expression doesn't change, Castiel's gaze turns to my hands. "That's a good idea. It will help you until you learn how to control your abilities."

I snort a laugh and give the angel a derisive look. "Control them? The moment I find out who the Mistress is, I'm getting her to take them away. And there's nothing you can do about it."

"I doubt that very much," Castiel replied. At once, I open my mouth to shoot back a response, but he turns from me to face Bobby before I can get a word in. "What is it you wanted a memory spell for?"

Bobby's face has closed off since the angel arrived, but he seems to take some measure of enjoyment out of saying, "For Esca. To find out who the Mistress is."

Castiel's eyes narrow at the middle-aged man, and he pivots on his heels to redirect his attention to me once more. "Then I can't help you."

"Why the hell not?" I demand angrily, but sometime in the middle of the exclamation, he disappears with the sound of fluttering wings. I flinch back, startled, but apparently the others are at least somewhat used to Castiel disappearing in the middle of conversations. Instead of being surprised by it, their expressions turn sour.

Dean rocks forward a few steps before pointing an accusatory finger at Bobby. "You went to Cas for help on this? I thought we decided that Esca was going to be our problem."

"When did you decide that?" Sam asks, speaking for the first time in minutes. He still hasn't budged from his protective stance in front of me.

Dean gives his brother a passing glance, adopting a distinctly older-brother tone as he says, "Before we left. You were busy chatting with jailbait over here."

"I'm twenty-three!" I protest, but he appears not to hear me.

"Hey, I'm the one who exorcised that demon back there. Don't act like I'm dead weight, Dean," Sam retorted. Dean ignores him too, glaring at Bobby.

Bobby scowls, thoroughly angered by the turn of events. "Since when is Cas not on our side?"

"Since last night, apparently. And only on this," Dean growls. When Bobby doesn't reply, he tosses a regard at me and says, "If a memory spell isn't going to work, then you'd better find a way to figure out who the Mistress is, _without_ the angel's help. The sooner we nix your powers, the sooner we get all this crap out of our hair."

I don't say anything back, not trusting myself not to say something I'll regret. Sam holds his brothers gaze for a tense second, before I hear him audibly click his teeth together and look away. In a stiff voice, Sam says, "I'll go help Bobby research."

He storms off, footsteps angry on the old wood floors. The three of us watch him go. I don't know what the others are thinking, but I know that I'm feeling an odd wave of empathy for the younger Winchester brother. This reminds me of working with Rade on cases. He often shoved the book research off onto me, citing my five years of university as proof enough that I could look things up. Usually, I countered with something like, "I didn't graduate high school two years early to do all your research for you," to which he always replied with a slam of a door and a distinct lack of presence for the next few hours.

Dean finally pulls his eyes off his brother's back, which is now hunched over a pile of dusty tomes Bobby piled on one of the many side tables in the living room. He rattles the keys in his hand and mutters, "I'm going on a supply run."

"Remember to get some tomato sauce while you're at it. You always forget," Bobby instructs gruffly, almost as though nothing happened. Dean nods his acknowledgment, then pushes back out into the sunny afternoon, leaving the screen door banging behind him.

Bobby exhales a long, heavy breath, before heading into the living room and striking up a conversation with Sam, who responds with the most monosyllabic answers possible. In less than sixty seconds, I'm left standing alone in the middle of the kitchen, gloves sticking to my palms and an empty pit yawning in my stomach.

I blink and shake my head, almost at a loss for words.

And I thought _my_ family was dysfunctional.

* * *

><p><em>OKAY SO I KNOW IT'S BEEN 30000 YEARS SINCE I UPDATED AND I'M REALLY REALLY SORRY. I lost the story (and to be honest, it's still kinda lost, but it's summer vacation so I decided to try and hack out a chapter. Honestly, this story is going to end up so roundabout and plot-holey that both you and I will hate it, but oh well).<em>

_And it has been a VERY uneventful chapter (sorry, again), but I had to set some things up that I'm pretty sure I'm going to use later (I need to find my plot page. I think it's somewhere in my study notes)._

_For people who PM me and wonder why it takes me a billion years to reply, it's because I don't really check that much. I'm ALWAYS on Tumblr, though, so if you want to message me (about the story or just to talk), my user is samssalvation :)_

_And...is it dumb that it took me until like chapter five of this story to realize that Esca has the same name as Sam's old girlfriend? I think I'm actually insane. I didn't even notice._

_Anyways. I hope you can forgive my absence, and review my story if you think it deserves it._

_-MK_


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